Sands Through The Hourglass
by Scarlett Burns
Summary: Post movie. Sands finds himself back in CIA hands, and his future is uncertain. A setup within the CIA puts Sands to the test, and he's forced to lay it all out on the line to gain proof about the conspiracy against him. COMPLETE
1. Killer Choices

**Sands Through The Hourglass**  
_Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fan Fiction_  
By Scarlett Burns 

**Rated R** for frequent harsh language, violence and disturbing situations.

Movie Disclaimer: I do not own _Once Upon A Time In Mexico_ or any of the recognizable characters that appear in the following story. _Once Upon A Time In Mexico, _the script/screenplay and characters belong to Robert Rodriguez, Troublemaker Studios and Columbia-Tristar. This story has been written without their consent. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this story.

CIA Note: This is fiction, and although the CIA slang, terminology and technology I've included w/in this story has been researched, the actual situations and the way the CIA is portrayed and does its job is completely fictional and in no way reflects on the image or reputation of the actual Central Intelligence Agency or its officers and agents.

Huge thanks to my beta, Stella, who made this story monumentally better by volunteering her valuable time, expertise, con-crit and insight.

Author's Notes:  
This story takes place immediately after the movie. _  
Italics_ are mental thoughts.

What can be found at the end of each chapter:  
-Translations for any non-English languages included in this story.  
-Terminology for CIA/Spy slang.  
-Reviewer thanks and author's notes.

* * *

Chapter 1: Killer Choices

Dark.

Everything was so dark.

It was like a black hole that seemed to suck all his thoughts, feelings, beliefs and actions into it. Confusion circled his mind as he leaned heavily against the stone wall behind him, the only thing currently keeping him upright at this very moment. He was only vaguely aware of what was going on, what he'd just done, and what horrors this day had unexpectedly brought him.

"¿Está bien, señor?" The little boy asked him worriedly. The same little boy he'd told to 'fuck off' what now seemed a lifetime ago. The same little boy he said he never wanted to see again.

'Got your wish, didn't you?'

Sands' head limply bobbed from one side to the other. He could tell that a good deal of drugs still ran through his system. He was disoriented and confused and most of all… terrified, a feeling that he was very unaccustomed to. It all felt like some hideous nightmare, one that he hoped to wake up from immediately, now if at all possible.

"No lo sé." Sands replied back in a strained voice, accidentally revealing to the kid that he did speak Spanish, quite well actually, when he chose to. More often then not he only spoke English so his enemies would develop a loose native tongue around him, assuming he couldn't understand.

It amazed Sands how stupid those mother-fuckers could be sometimes.

"Lo estará."

Sands sighed. Although he admired the kid's optimism, he doubted that he would make it through the night. But then, he wasn't sure he wanted to make it any longer than that anyway.

How much time had passed? One hour? Two? Four? Sands couldn't focus his mind anymore, the darkness, blood loss and pain taking their toll.

The pain was slowly crawling to the surface, starting as a dull ache that he knew would eventually end as screaming pain.

The drugs Barillo and his bastard daughter Ajedrez had pumped him full of were starting to wear off.

'Oh, fuck.'

Once the drugs wore off, things were going to start getting really ugly, really fast.

'Start? Oh, that's a laugh. I've got legs and an arm full of lead and two gaping holes where my eyes used to be. _I'm in fantastic shape.'_

Sands tried to move his injured arm with little success, the drugs wearing thin and his adrenaline long gone.

'Yeah… I'm ready to take on Broadway, baby.'

The thought made Sands chuckle out loud, and Chicle Boy stood beside him somewhat surprised.

"¿Por qué se ríe?"the boy asked, clearly bewildered.

The boy didn't see anything funny about the situation, but then Sands had always had a fucked up and twisted sense of humor.

"Señor?" the boy half whispered as if afraid to disturb him further. It was enough to pull Sands out of his thoughts.

Deep down Sands supposed that he was touched that the kid even cared. But he was never one to let his emotions get in the way, and quickly became annoyed that the boy wouldn't just leave him be and let him bleed to death in peace on this dusty, deserted side street in Culiacan.

"Yeah, yeah… fuck off ki—"

Sands stopped in mid retort. _'What the hell is wrong with me?'_ Sands thought to himself. '_I am Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency. '_

'I do **not** give up and I do **not** lose.'

Sands took a deep breath and tried to stand up without the aid of the wall he was leaning against. He gritted his teeth to prevent the moan that wanted to escape his lips as pain shot through him. Sands silently damned the asshole who had had to shoot him in both legs. He quickly fell back against the wall, his legs simply unable to support his own weight by themselves any longer.

'Just where do you think you're going to go, anyway? You have no friends - just the way you like it I might add - and you're fucking blind, fuckmook. Are you just going to wander blindly around town until you get a stray bullet in the head or you unsuspectingly wander into the path of an oncoming truck?'

In the middle of his own mental rant a thought occurred to him… more than a thought actually, an answer.

Sands sat down at the table and quickly ordered his favorite meal and drink; slow roasted pork with a tequila and lime. He handed the waitress the menu without even bothering to open it. Waiting until she walked away he pulled out his cell and quickly punched in a familiar number. He was infuriated at being fobbed off during his last call by his 'superior' and the result was that he punched in the numbers a little harder than was actually necessary.

Sands pushed the call button and the line rang twice before someone picked up.

"Martin here."

"Yeah, listen, I need a new line." Sands told Martin matter-of-factly.

"Sands," his superior stated, as usual not sounding happy to hear from the _renegade officer. _

_"What's the problem? Why do you need a new line?"_

"This one's been compromised."

Officer Martin sighed into the phone, clearly agitated, and making sure Sands was aware of it. "Fine, this line will be cut as soon as we're finished. Where are you? I'll send a man over."

"OK. Thank you," Sands drawled, indicating that he was really anything but thankful. "I'm waiting here at la Vaca Volando."

"La Vaca Volando?" Martin could almost have laughed at the ridiculous name, that is, if he had had a sense of humor.

"That's right. The Flying… Cow."

That was it. He'd go back to the Flying Cow. A fellow officer was going to meet him there, and there was still a good chance he'd be waiting – after all, the CIA was nothing if it wasn't thorough and they'd want to make absolutely certain an officer was gone before declaring him dead or MIA.

"Oye, niño de la bubblegum... ¿todavía estás aquí?" Sands asked as he cursed the darkness that made him feel so helplessly lost.

"Sí." The kid answered quickly, wanting to be of help somehow.

"Bien. Listen kid, get a taxi and bring it here. I don't think I can walk very far… Comprendes?"

"Sí."

Sands listened carefully. He heard the kid's footsteps retreating, then the bell on the child's bike as he rode away. Leaning heavily against the wall he listened to the mixture of sounds around him, a few distant gun shots, the noise of vehicles, and the rustle of paper banners from the Day of The Dead celebration gone bad as they blew in the breeze. His hearing, touch and smell were all that he had left now.

'Don't! Don't start thinking about that… aut vincere aut mori.'

'No.' He wouldn't think about that now. He… couldn't think about it now. Yet the thought was there, in the back of his mind, tugging at him like the pain from the hollows of what were once his dark brown eyes. It relentlessly reminded him of the horrors this day had brought him and the finality that would hit him later when the drugs wore off and his mind was clear.

'Well, I really fucked up this time,' he thought to himself. '_Even before today, I was blinded by a hot piece of ass, blind to the fact that things had spun so far out of control and now I really am…'_

Ajedrez's words burned in his ears and echoed in his mind cruelly…

"You really didn't see it coming, did you?"

He'd never forget those words. She was dead and gone, but those words would stay with him forever. The worst part was that Ajedrez was right and he knew it. The great and all-powerful CIA Officer hadn't seen it coming. Sands had let his masterfully manipulative mind, with its years of CIA training and experience, fuck up.

And in the CIA, one fuck up was all it took.

Yet he knew he could never give up. Give up? He didn't know the meaning of the phrase. He'd killed Ajedrez, killed those men, and managed to still stand here now. Even if he was a bit shaky, he was still standing.

No, he'd live with the consequences of today. If there was anything Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands was not, it was a coward, and he wouldn't take the cowards' way out.

The heat of the day struck him, and he remembered that he was wearing all black. The one thing he shouldn't be wearing under the blistering Mexican sun while he lost massive amounts of blood.

'The price one pays to look like a bad ass.'

Sighing, Sands heard the rumble of a car approaching. A door opened and closed. Small, quick footsteps approached, and a familiar young boy's voice called to him.

"¡Señor! ¡Señor! ¡He traído el taxi como usted me lo pidió!"

Sands breathed in deeply to ready himself for the move he must make and was instantly rewarded with lungs full of fine dust swept up from the road by the wind and the newly arrived taxi. The pain was starting to eat away at him now, getting worse with each passing minute. Sands realized he needed to hurry, or he was going to bleed to death right here on the hot, dirty, dusty, deserted street in this god-forsaken town.

Somehow he found the strength to stand, though he wobbled unsteadily, his black-gloved hands in front of him, reaching blindly for the kid. He found his target and, transferring most of his weight to Chicle Boy, managed to make it the short distance to the taxi.

Landing on the backseat in a heap, the kid beside him, he told the driver to take him to the Flying Cow.

It occurred to Sands, right before he passed out from pain and blood loss, that he might not be making the smartest choice, rushing back into the waiting arms of the CIA. He had no idea how much they knew about his crooked dealings and unnecessary target practice, but he didn't _see_ that he had any other choice.

* * *

Spanish Translations

¿Está bien, señor? - Are you all right, Sir?

No lo sé. - I don't know.

Lo estará. - You will be.

¿Por qué se ríe? - Why do you laugh?

Oye, niño de la bubblegum... ¿todavía estás aquí? - Hey, bubblegum kid… you still here?

Bien. - Good

Comprendes? - Understand?

¡Señor! ¡Señor! ¡He traído el taxi como usted me lo pidió! – I have brought the taxi like you asked!

Latin Translations

Aut vincere aut mori-_ Either conquer or die. _

Spook Speak Terminology

No spy slang this chapter.

--- 

Author's note:

Special thanks to Cecy for the proper Spanish translations. You rock. 

Feedback and constructive criticism is always appreciated and loved. So if you feel the urge to hit the review button at any time while reading this story... by all means don't smother the impulse... act on it. Be spontaneous, live on the edge! We all know Sands certainly doesn't live anywhere else. 

Thanks for reading!


	2. Improper Protocol

At the end of this chapter you can find:  
-Translations for any non-English languages.  
-Terminology for CIA/Spy slang.  
-Reviewer thanks and author's notes.

Chapter 2: Improper Protocol

A few hard nudges roused Sands from his sleep. At least he thought he was awake. Not being able to open ones eyes was going to take some getting used to.

"Alright already!" Sands snapped at the kid, as he sat up in the taxi's back seat. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he adjusted his sunglasses, making sure they were still in place. His whole body seemed to be screaming at him to just lie there and not move, but that simply wasn't an option.

"Are we at the Flying Cow?" Sands asked, not caring which one of the car's occupants answered. As it turned out, it was the driver who spoke.

"Sí. ¿Acaso está ciego? Está justo en frente de usted."

Officer Sands paused for a brief moment as his jaw worked angrily. His hand found its way to the butt of his gun, and he contemplated how he should kill the driver.

'A bullet in the back of the head would be quick… but strangulation would be so much more therapeutic right now.'

"Estoy seguro de que no quiso decir nada con eso. ¡Él no sabe!" Chicle boy said in a hurried voice as he noticed where the Officer's hand was. As much as Sands felt that he needed to restore the balance, he restrained himself. No need to make a scene, after all.

Plus he really didn't want to kill the driver in front of the boy, who'd probably witnessed enough death for one day, or for that matter in front of any CIA agents who might be watching.

'Deep breath. Take a deep breath. Regain control. There's plenty of time for balance restoring later.'

"Lead me to the restaurant, kid," Sands said, as he opened his door and, with some effort, began to get out. He heard the kid clamber out and walk around the car.

As the boy offered Sands a supporting shoulder, the taxi driver shouted angrily at the two of them, "¿Dónde está mi dinero?"

Now, Sands could normally find a tiny smidgen of patience within his soul… however, as previously stated, he was having somewhat of a bad day, and he'd had enough. In one quick and graceful motion that surprised even him, he snatched the gun from its holster and pointed it towards the sound of the taxi driver's voice. Even though Sands couldn't see him, his aim was perfect; the barrel of the gun zeroed in on the driver's head. He had killed Ajedrez with this gun and had no qualms about adding more blood to its record. He spoke in a low and threatening tone to the man behind the wheel. " Refrenarme de disparar un hoyo en tu cabeza deberá ser el pago suficiente. Lárgate o jódete."

He'd barely closed the door before he heard the driver peel off. Sands returned his gun to its holster with a smugly satisfied, if somewhat pain-laced, smirk. Chicle boy took hold of his right hand and slowly led him across the street to the Flying Cow, as his body protested every step. Sands' smirk turned into a grimace as his mind thought in disgust, _'Vae corpus vile'._

Officer Cameron had watched Sands' entire taxi display with quiet amusement, seated at one of the outdoor tables at the Flying Cow. It was just so very… Sands. He'd known the officer for years, and he really was a nutcase.

As Sands continued walking, or rather stumbling, towards the Flying Cow, Cameron realized just how badly injured Sands really was. For starters, blood was oozing out from under Sands' sunglasses and spilling down his cheeks and face. It was a sight worthy of the most gory of horror films. He didn't even want to think about the injuries that were causing it. Sands was also limping heavily, and blood was dripping from a hole in his black shirt and down the gloved fingertips of his left arm. He looked like death itself, and Officer Cameron had to hand it to the crazy son-of-a-bitch for even making it here.

'Christ!' Cameron thought to himself. As much as Cameron disliked Sands' personality, and the way he carried out his clandestine operations, he never liked to see a fellow officer injured. Especially one he'd trained with.

As soon as Sands was in front of the restaurant, Cameron leapt to his feet and rushed over, putting together a little fantasy that the two of them were American tourist friends.

"Oh my god, Joe! What happened?" he exclaimed, as he grabbed Sands' free arm, while Chicle Boy held onto the other.

Sands lifted his head a little higher at the sound of a familiar voice, the addition of another much stronger hand on his arm giving much needed support to his failing legs. He knew that voice… it was a fellow CIA officer… one he knew quite well, but he couldn't quite place it. He was in too much pain. All at once a wave of dizziness assailed him, and it took all the strength he could muster just to keep standing and remain conscious; that was a feat in and of itself given the amount of blood he'd lost.

Sands felt the need to spit out some smart-ass reply to his fellow officer's question about what had happened, and opened his mouth to do so, but in the end just didn't have enough strength left. He shut his mouth as a pathetic groan escaped his lips. The other officer got the hint, and quickly led Sands to his car, which was parked at the corner of the street, thankfully fairly close to the restaurant. The little boy helped Cameron drag Sands to the car.

Sands felt himself being laid down upon something in a surprisingly gentle manner.

'_Golly, that's interesting_.'

He sensed a cool surface against his face, and recognized the sound of a car door being closed. He was lying on the backseat of a car, the other officer's car, he presumed.

It was that reassurance, little though it was, that allowed him to finally succumb to the dizziness and slip into the unconsciousness that had been beckoning to him.

Closing the car door, Cameron took a deep breath to calm his rattled nerves, then turned to the little boy, who looked distressed. It almost startled Cameron. '_Sands is not a nice man, so what has Sands done to win the devotion of the boy? Or did the boy just feel sympathy for Sands' condition?'_ He looked back at Sands. '_That must be it. Who wouldn't have sympathy for a man so badly mangled?'_

"Gracias por ayudar al Oficial Sands." Cameron said awkwardly in Spanish. He'd never been good at speaking foreign languages and just barely knew enough to get by. '_The complete opposite of Sands_,' Cameron thought suddenly. "A partir de ahora yo cuidaré de él."

The kid's eyes focused on the unconscious officer. "¿Estará bien, señor?" he asked, more worried about the hurt man than he had been before. At least before, he'd been conscious.

Cameron swallowed hard, and his gaze briefly shifted to Sands before returning to the boy. Even if Sands survived all his injuries, Cameron wasn't so sure that Sands' standing would be 'alright' with the Company. He wasn't sure what Sands had been up to this time around, but there had to be some improper protocol involved. There always was with Sands. However Sands' fate all depended on whether or not the Company knew about it, and if so, just how much they knew. Sands was one of the best, in terms of gathering the intelligence the Company wanted, and it was possible that this skill would save him in the end.

"No lo se… pero prometo hacer todo lo que pueda para que lo esté. Ahora ve y corre, necesito llevarlo al hospital en seguida," Cameron finally said to the boy, after trying to gather his own thoughts.

The boy cast one last worried look at Sands before muttering a worried "Eso espero," and slowly walking away from the car, heading back down the dusty street to retrieve the bicycle he'd left behind.

Cameron moved swiftly to the driver's side and hopped in, quickly starting the car. He looked in his rear view mirror at Sands' unmoving form. Cameron had no idea if Sands would survive, but Cameron owed Sands one, much as he hated to admit it and he wouldn't let a fellow CIA officer down.

Unfortunately Cameron couldn't just take Sands to the nearest hospital. He would have to take him to the nearby CIA headquarters first, where the white coats could stabilize him before flying him back to the OMS in Virginia. But he couldn't just take him straight to HQ either, Cameron had to make sure to lose anyone who might be tailing them first. It was a well-known fact that it was unacceptable to risk giving away the location of the Company's foreign soil HQ, even if it meant risking the lives of several officers.

Cameron reached under the passenger seat and grabbed his sweatshirt, unused in the heat, then tore it into strips with the help of his pocketknife. Turning around in the front seat, he reached back and tightly tied one strip around each of the bullet wounds, which were still bleeding profusely. If the bleeding didn't slow down soon, Sands' chances of making it were somewhere between slim and non-existent. He looked up at Sands' face and debated whether to take off the sunglasses and see just what had happened, but he quickly decided against it. They needed to leave immediately, and he was pretty damn certain that whatever had happened to cause such a mess couldn't be fixed with a tightly tied piece of cloth.

Turning back around, Cameron put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. He intended to waste approximately half an hour by making several quick turns and maneuvers to lose anyone potentially on their tail, and could only hope that Sands would fight to hang on.

Spanish Translations

Sí. ¿Acaso está ciego? Está justo en frente de usted. - Yes. Are you blind? It is right in front of you.

Estoy seguro de que no quiso decir nada con eso. ¡Él no sabe! - I'm sure he meant nothing by it. He doesn't know!

¿Dónde está mi dinero? - Where is my money?

Refrenarme de disparar un hoyo en tu cabeza deberá ser el pago suficiente. Lárgate o jódete. - Restraining myself from shooting a hole through your head should be payment enough. Fuck off… or fuck you.

Gracias por ayudar al Oficial Sands. - Thank you for helping Officer Sands.

A partir de ahora yo cuidaré de él. - I will take care of him from here.

¿Estará bien, señor? - Will he be alright Sir?

No lo se… pero prometo hacer todo lo que pueda para que lo esté. Ahora ve y corre, necesito llevarlo al hospital en seguida. - I don't know… but I promise I'll do everything I can to see that he will be. Run along now, I need to take him to the hospital right away.

Eso espero. - I hope so.

Latin Translations

Vae corpus vile. - Damn worthless body.

Spook Speak Terminology

**The Company** - What officers, agents, and those on the inside call the CIA.

**White Coats** or **Spooks in White** - Is inside slang for CIA doctors/physicians.

**Joe** - Started in WWII. The basic and common American name was jargon used for an agent (not wanting to blow cover or use their real names).

**OMS** - Is the acronym/slang for the CIA's Office of Medical Services. This is where CIA employees are sent (or may go to) to get both physical and/or psychiatric treatment.

**HQ** - I'm sure most of you are familiar but just in case, this stands for Headquarters.

**Clandestine Operation** - A secret covert or undercover operation. An operation the general public and the media alike are not aware of.

**Agent** - An outsider hired by a CIA officer to spy. An Agent is often a citizen of the country being spied upon.

**Officer** - A staff employee of the agency. Officers in the field can submit to recruit agents as needed.

Note

Since Sands was basically recruiting El as an agent (as well as ex-FBI Ramirez), and talked of Inter-Agency cooperation (something that an outside agent wouldn't know anything about) I'm calling Sands and his fellow CIA men/women, Officers. Although Sands is often referred to as an agent, in the movie Sands actually says, "You know withholding information from a federal officer is a serious offense.", stating that he was actually an officer, and not an agent.

Review Responses

Thank you, thank you Merrie, Rat, Ivy, Miss Becky, ElvenPirate41, Intuitive, Mooney, and Halia for the feedback to chapter 1. You inspire me.

Author's Notes

Special thanks goes to Cecy for the Spanish.


	3. Cowboy

**Chapter 3: Cowboy**

After what seemed like nine hours, but in actuality was approximately twenty-five minutes, Officer Cameron decided that they were not being pursued. There had been no signs of another vehicle following, and with the speed of the car there was no way anyone could have kept up on foot.

Just to be absolutely certain, Cameron stopped the car and waited at one of the deserted intersections for a moment to see if any vehicles appeared behind them after their abrupt halt. Cameron looked back at Sands, who was still out cold, and decided he'd better search him for any bugs or tracking devices.

After a quick dry-clean of Sands' person, he was satisfied that his fellow officer was clean. Cameron started the car back up and stepped on the gas. He made a couple more quick turns, and one last hard right, as he headed out of town. The sudden motion caused Sands' body to shift to one side and Sands grunted in reaction.

'At least he's still alive,' Cameron thought, only slightly reassured.

As they reached the outskirts of the town, Cameron continually looked in his rear view mirror for a possible tail, and was pleased to see none. His gaze in the rear view wandered down to Sands' still form lying awkwardly in the back seat.

Officer Sands. A man he'd known since they'd met at the Farm some thirteen years ago. They'd even graduated together, although much to Cameron's dismay, Sands had achieved a significantly better grade point average in almost every subject.

Cameron had always been slightly jealous of Sands, though he'd never admit it out loud. The fact that he hadn't mentioned it out loud hadn't mattered though, because Sands was aware of it just the same.

Sands had the remarkable ability to look at someone, listen to the tenor of their voice, weigh their body language and know exactly what that person was thinking. It was a gift that really couldn't be taught, and it was the reason the Company had placed Sands' in the Interrogations Department right after he'd graduated. It was a perfect fit, but in the end Sands simply ticked off too many people in the department for him to be welcome there, and he'd been officially labeled 'does not work well with others'.

'He has a remarkable gift for pissing people off with a mere sentence… hell, a mere word at times.'

It was distinctively Sands. Master manipulator and controller extraordinaire. He lived to get under people's skin, which was why he'd never had any real friends and was a perfect officer for the Company. A man who no longer had any family to tie him down, any people to care.

Sands was a smart man.

'_No, smart wasn't the word for it. Sands was a genius at what he did.'_

When it came to psychological warfare, mind games and intelligence gathering he could think of no one at the Company who was better at it than Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands. But Cameron was no fool; he knew that behind that genius was a somewhat, if not very, unbalanced mind.

Which is why he was wondering, at this very moment, just what could have gone so wrong. Sands was not a stupid officer in the field, and he had some ten years experience under his belt.

'I set them up and watch them fall.'

Sands voice drawled in Cameron's mind. How many times had he listened to Sands utter those words? Just set them up and watch them fall. Sands had always made it sound so easy, when in reality it was anything but.

Yes, the man was a perfect CIA Operations Officer… that is, to those that weren't privy to any of Sands' own private clandestine operations.

Sands wasn't without his faults, and as the saying goes, you can't be good at everything. Sands had a bad habit of drawing too much attention to himself for his own good, with his bizarre taste in tacky clothing and bad wigs. He also had a tendency to go too far when something didn't go his way, and as far as authority went, well… the 'doesn't play well with others' label always came back into effect. Sands would go to almost any lengths to get what he wanted.

However, Cameron knew the Company well. If an officer was a great asset to the agency, got the intelligence and results that the Company wanted, and was secretive enough about any improper conduct… well, then the Company might be inclined to look the other way, as long as the agent didn't cross the line by committing treason, or causing any negative blowback. No, the Company wasn't unfamiliar with the term 'turn a blind eye', and often enough they let a truly good asset continue his operations without interference from them, as long as the officer could keep his unfavorable behavior clandestine.

Cameron did know Sands well enough to know he wouldn't commit treason, and Cameron hadn't seen, heard of ,or read about any blowback from Sands' rolled-up operation. However Cameron had known Sands long enough to be fairly certain Sands had used methods that were not publicly accepted by the Company. The real question was whether the Company knew about it. If they did know, then the next question was just exactly how much were they aware of?

"Sands?" Cameron inquired, curious to know if Sands was conscious.

"Eleven…" Sands mumbled quietly, seemingly still oblivious to the world.

Cameron's brow furrowed. Sands was alive, yes, but he didn't seem to be all there, still unaware of his surroundings and company. "Don't worry Jeff, I'll get a pretty female white coat to take care of you, just hang on for me."

"Eleven… mustn't… broken." The injured officer continued to murmur.

A flash of memory came to Cameron then. It was of a conversation he'd had with Sands way back when they were freshmen together at the Farm.

* * *

Sands smiled his usual smug smile, and his brown eyes shone with a familiar glint that only meant one thing; he'd get under his fellow student Eric Cameron's skin by the end of the conversation.

Jeff had always balked at the rules, and he pushed everything to the limit. On days when he felt extremely rebellious, he mocked the system by wearing ridiculous cowboy garb, sometimes even complete with boots and a big cowboy hat.

A Cowboy.

Sands had always gotten a perverse pleasure out of a nickname that normally served only as an insult within the Company.

Obviously this was one of those rebellious days, as Sands stood in front of him with a laughably big cowboy hat complemented by full western garb. Cameron would have laughed at the hilarious sight, if he hadn't known how dangerous Sands could be when pissed off.

"You worry too much Cam," Sands drawled in his uniquely calm and unnerving voice. Cameron shuddered inwardly at the nickname. He'd never liked it, and he was sure Sands knew that and used it for that very reason. "Of all that shit the Professor just spouted in class, there was only one thing that I could truly agree with."

"And which one thing do you see as more important than all the others, Jeff?" Cameron asked, in a tone that indicated he didn't really care about the answer.

"Cam! And here I thought you were the perfect student. Sitting quietly and taking endless notes that you'll never read." Sands smirked and dug a cigarette out of his pocket, fully aware that he wasn't allowed to smoke inside the Farm, but lighting up anyway.

"I thought them all important, Jeff."

Sands tipped back his cowboy hat and sighed dramatically as he took a drag off his cigarette. "No, no, no, Cam," Sands said patronizingly to his fellow rookie. " Eleven. Eleven is the golden rule. The only commandment that must never, under any circumstances, be broken."

* * *

Just like that, the memory was gone. Cam couldn't help but chuckle at it because he still couldn't remember what commandment eleven was. After all, he'd learned all that thirteen years ago, and he'd had some trouble remembering it even back then. Besides, he wasn't even sure that Sands was mumbling about commandment eleven. He could be babbling about almost anything; with the amount of blood he'd lost he was probably delusional.

Besides Sands' mumbling and bleeding, Cameron was also concerned about the fact that Sands didn't seem to have recognized him. Even after leaving the Farm he had worked side-by-side with Sands on several operations. It wasn't as if Sands would have forgotten him.

As he glanced back in the mirror his eyes once again focused on all the blood that seemed to be flowing out from under Sands' sunglasses. He hated to think that Sands hadn't recognized him because he couldn't see him, but unfortunately he thought it highly likely. Cameron sincerely hoped, if only for the sake of Sands' own highly-questionable sanity, that it was a temporary problem.

* * *

  
Spook Speak Terminology

**Cowboy** - CIA slang, an unflattering term that denotes an intelligence person who defies the rules, regulations and conventions and conducts himself in an unprofessional, flamboyant way.  
(aka a "loose cannon" or "renegade")  
Note: Now, I have to wonder if it was just a coincidence that Depp (who seems to have supplied all the wardrobe for the character) had Sands decked out in full Cowboy garb a couple times in OUATIM or if it was a direct play off the actual CIA slang. Either way, I'll never look at that scene/outfit the same again! ;)

**Dry Clean - **Actions operatives take to determine if they are under surveillance or bugged.

**Bugs - **I'm sure most of ya know this one, but it's electronic devices planted to spy on or track  
a person or group of people.

**Clean** - Unknown to enemy intelligence. Also means free of any kind of surveillance.

**The Farm (aka Camp Swampy)** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia. Also known as Camp Perry.

**Rolled-Up** - When an operation goes bad and/or an agent is arrested.

**Blowback (aka Flap) **- Potential bad publicity that might result if a CIA operation is exposed  
to the public.

**Commandment 11** - There actually is a CIA commandment 11... but past that my lips are sealed. g

Thanks everyone, I hope you'll continue to read and review.


	4. The Eleventh Commandment

**Chapter 4: The Eleventh Commandment**

After several miles of driving in the barren Mexican desert, Cameron heard Sands shift his weight slightly in the backseat, and the move prompted Cameron to try and get Sands to talk, hopefully a little more coherently this time around.

"Jeff, are you still with me back there?"

No reaction.

Cameron sighed and thought it best just to give up, but then an idea popped into his head. Cameron had to admit it was sort of an evil idea, something that would probably get him killed if Sands was his normal self, but he wasn't… and if anything would get him to respond it would be that.

Cameron opened his mouth to say it, and then thought twice when one of Sands' guns glinted in the sunlight. Sands might have been wounded, delirious and unconscious, but he was still Sands.

Cameron, deciding it was better to be safe than dead, carefully reached back at the same time as he was attempting to steer, and began to divest Sands of his killing instruments. Slowly Cameron removed Sands' guns from their holsters and placed them on the front seat, managing to somehow stay on the road during the process.

After the guns were safely out of Sands' reach, he uttered the dreaded word.

"Sheldon?"

That did it.

Just as Cameron had anticipated, Sands' hand went down to grab the most immediately available gun. It was more of a reflex than anything else, and Cam couldn't help but let a small smile emerge when Sands started to mutter angrily under his breath. Cameron had known that if Sands was at all with it, he'd hear the name he absolutely detested and would immediately seek revenge on the one who had uttered it.

'Payback's a bitch.'

* * *

Sands could feel the sun on his face, the heat of its bright rays, yet nothing penetrated the darkness. _'Except for the pain ripping through my skull… and, oh yeah, some asshole calling me Sheldon.'_ That was something he couldn't tolerate. If he was about to die, he'd be damned if they were going to be calling him Sheldon at his funeral. He'd instinctively reached for one of his weapons, only to find that he was weaponless.

'Freaking out now,' Sands thought to himself, as his body relaxed from loss of blood, without his permission, but not before he'd uttered a "fuck off" for good measure.

"Are you still with me back there?" Cameron repeated, for want of something better to say.

And it was just like that. It struck Sands suddenly, where he'd heard that voice before.

'Cameron. Officer Eric "goody-two-shoes" Cameron. I should have known right away.'

Cam. His fellow student from the Farm.

'Well I suppose Sands ol' boy, that there are worse people who could have picked you up, much worse. However, his arrival is most unexpected; he's not stationed in Mexico. At least, last time I heard he wasn't.'

A wave of dizziness washed over Sands as he took a deep, ragged breath and turned his head ever so slightly in the direction of Cameron's voice. He attempted a snide snicker, and only half succeeded.

"So, Cam, did they send you in for a little Exfiltration Operation? About bloody fuckin' time. Or did you just drop by for a tequila and lime?"

Cameron could tell by the sound of Sands' voice that he was obviously in pain, but he was trying not to let it get in the way of good sarcasm. Cameron couldn't help it when a small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth as Sands seemed to return to his old, normal, bastard self. He had to admit that he occasionally liked the crazy bastard, for some reason that must have been equally as crazy as Sands himself.

"Yeah. I was told to meet you at the Flying Cow."

"Still trying to wrangle the Company Cowboy, eh Cam? I guess… some things really don't change," Sands said, as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position, his legs and body at odds with each other.

"Just like old times, don't you agree Jeff?" Cameron asked conversationally; the longer he could keep him conscious the better. He did remember that much from the Farm. _'Keep them talking if you can, until you can get medical attention for them.'_

"Mutatis mutandis."

Cam rolled his eyes, exasperated because Sands knew he couldn't understand Latin, but always seemed to use it anyway. Yet another thing that hadn't changed.

"Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. I'm not that far gone yet."

'He obviously hasn't lost his knack for reading people.'

At his silence Sands continued, "Well gee, wonders never cease. Cam remembers something from Camp Swampy after all."

Cam rolled his eyes for the second time in a minute, not an unusual occurrence when one was around Sands.

"Jeff," Cam paused for a moment before asking the critical question. "What the hell happened?"Sands let out a short, sharp laugh, the kind that could send chills down someone's spine. "Better to ask what didn't happen; it would be a shorter answer." Sands laugh ended in a cough, the day's events having taken their toll. "Shit. Forgot my own golden rule, the one commandment I swore I'd never break."

"It's been thirteen years. You'll have to refresh my memory."

With a visible effort, Sands propped his head up with his good arm as his head and body swayed heavily with the motion of the car.

"Still can't remember? I guess in some insane way that makes me feel better."

"You were muttering the number eleven. Is that what you meant?"

"You really weren't payin' attention, were you, Cam? I broke the eleventh fucking commandment."

Sands paused to see if Cameron got the message. He didn't.

"Which is?" Cameron prodded.

Sands let out an odd, long, heavy breath before speaking. "Thou shalt not get caught."

The words hung in the air, neither one wanting to say anything more, and Sands let his head drop back down onto the backseat of the car. Cameron quickly got out his cell phone, and called Sands' superior, Officer Martin, at Mexican Headquarters.

"Martin? I've seen Joe and he's decided to visit. That's right, and he'll need a white coat and an escort to OMS as soon as possible. That's correct. We'll be there in twenty-five." He hung up and looked back at Sands. He seemed to be breathing fine, but was obviously in a lot of pain. It did appear, however, that the bleeding from the bullet wounds had slowed down, which was small consolation.

"You were the Operation Controller, weren't you?" he asked Sands.

Sands' head made a slow up and down motion against the seat before he replied.

"Yeah… yeah, I was the controller."

**

* * *

**

Latin Translations

Mutatis mutandis. _- With the necessary changes._

Terminology

**Exfiltration Operation** - A clandestine rescue operation designed to bring a operative  
(officer or agent), defector, refugee and/or his/her family out of harm's way.

**Controller (aka Handler)** - Officer in charge of a string of agents.

**Cowboy** - CIA slang. An unflattering term that denotes an intelligence person who defies the rules, regulations and conventions and conducts himself in an unprofessional, flamboyant way.  
(aka a "loose cannon")

**Camp Swampy** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia.  
(aka The Farm or Camp Perry)

**OMS** - Is the acronym/slang for the CIA's Office of Medical Services. This is where  
CIA employees are sent (or may go to) to get both physical and/or psychiatric treatment.

**White Coats** - CIA slang for the Company doctors.

**Commandment 11** - A most important rule for a spook, "Thou shalt not get caught!".


	5. Air America

**Chapter 5: Air America**

Exactly twenty-three minutes later Cameron arrived at headquarters with Sands' unmoving, non-speaking form sprawled across the backseat. Cameron figured he'd drifted into unconsciousness, because he hadn't said a word for well over fifteen minutes, which would have been an impossibility if Sands was conscious.

Just as Cameron had requested, several white coats were waiting for them when they arrived, as was Sands' superior, Officer Martin. He'd barely brought the car to a stop when the white coats rushed over and examined Sands. Gently, two of them lifted Sands off the backseat and onto an emergency stretcher. During all this, there was no movement from Sands whatsoever, which was, in Cameron's opinion, not a great sign. Cameron watched as the white coats immediately rushed Sands inside headquarters, while Office Martin came up beside him and hastily introduced himself.

After Sands disappeared through the nearest headquarters entrance, Cameron followed Officer Martin inside. Martin was obviously trying to get to Sands, but the white coats would have none of it.

"I need to talk to him," Martin growled, half to himself, as he turned to Cameron.

"Sir, with all due respect, Officer Sands' condition is critical. He won't be able to speak to you now, even if you do see him, as he is presently unconscious. He's suffering from at least three gunshot wounds and an unknown injury to his face. It's… it's a possibility that he may not even survive," Cameron told him, as they entered a large room that appeared to be Martin's center of operations. Martin humphed indifferently, and took a seat in a comfy chair behind a long oak desk, not showing the least bit of concern for his fallen officer.

"Would that be so bad?" Martin asked casually.

Cameron's eyes widened; he was completely taken aback by the remark. Certainly officers often didn't get along, and let's face facts, no one got along with Sands, but it was unheard of to blatantly say that the death of another officer 'wouldn't be so bad'. Especially one you currently worked with.

"Sir?"

Martin leaned back in his chair and looked into Cameron's eyes, "You act shocked, but you're really not. You know Sands. He's a loose cannon, and has most likely put the agency in jeopardy more than once. Oh, I don't have proof mind you," Martin said, waving his hand dismissively. "Sands is no fool, he knows how to cover himself. I should have known that with Sands as controller this operation would turn into a wet job."

Cameron didn't like where this was going, and decided to change the subject. "How long till the AA helicopter arrives to transport Officer Sands to OMS?"

"Within the hour."

After about ten minutes of awkward silence between the two officers one of the white coats emerged from a backroom and joined them inside the office. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, with sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. His face was pale, as if he was shocked by the sight he'd just seen.

"Well, will he live?"

"Can't say for certain. He's lost a good deal of blood and has extensive injuries. However, if he's transferred to OMS immediately I'd say he has a good chance of making it."

Cameron didn't like the look on the doctor's face. "What's the extent of his injuries?"

The white coat sighed heavily and wiped some beads of sweat off his forehead. "He's suffering from a number of gunshot wounds. One in his upper left arm and one in both thighs. They're survivable and completely recoverable with the proper treatment b..."

"That's all? So I can talk to him then. Excu..." Martin interrupted rudely, only to have the rudeness returned by the white coat.

"No sir, that's not all. I haven't covered his most serious injury, one that I am ill-equipped to handle here. OMS will have to take care of..."

"What is the injury?" Cameron asked hurriedly, knowing full well that it had to do with the extensive amount of blood running out from under Sands' sunglasses. He wasn't a complete idiot, despite what Sands might say.

"He's obviously been tortured. The most serious injury he suffered is to his eyes," the white coat shifted his weight from side to side before continuing. "He's blind."

Cameron shut his eyes briefly. '_Christ almighty!'_

"Is there any chance of..."

"No," the white coat interrupted, knowing full well what Cameron was going to ask. "No chance of Officer Sands recovering his sight. Complete disability for life. He requires immediate evacuation to OMS for treatment… and therapy."

Cameron felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Sands, the thoroughly irritating and unbalanced officer he'd known since his days of training at the Farm.

Being blind meant being imperfect, and it meant being vulnerable and needy.

These were Sands' worst nightmares.

Cameron looked up at the doctor again. "How can you be so sure?"

The white coat returned Cameron's steady gaze before telling both officers the ugly truth.

"There is no chance of recovery… because quite frankly there is nothing there to fix." At the confused looks the two officers were throwing him, the white coat decided to put it bluntly. "He has no eyes at all."

Cameron's mind reeled. "No eyes…" he repeated back in a whisper. The mere thought was horrifying to him, and he realized now why the white coat was so pale. He'd seen it, in all its gory reality. Even for a doctor, it couldn't have been easy. Cameron leaned heavily against the desk next to him, suddenly feeling the need to sit down. He heard Martin's chair creak from the officer's weight, so evidently he wasn't the only one.

The white coat continued, "Frankly, I'm surprised he's alive. Not only has he lost a massive amount of blood, he's obviously been tortured. To top it all off, from his symptoms I'd guess whoever did it must have given him quite a nasty drug to keep him aware and awake while they… operated."

"Fuck!" Cameron swore under his breath, uncharacteristically for him.

"Is he aware of what has happened to him?" Martin asked dully, a surprising lack of emotion in his voice.

To Cameron, Martin sounded like a robot devoid of all feeling.

It was unnerving.

Cameron looked at Martin, and was further surprised to see the man didn't look too shocked or too phased by the gruesome facts the doctor was piling on them either.

'_Very odd.'_

"To a certain extent, yes. I'm sure a lot of what happened after the torture is fuzzy, but I believe he knows what has happened. He can most likely remember the whole hideous operation, if they gave him the drugs I suspect they did."

Cameron finally gave in and sat down on the desk, not caring if it was offensive to a superior or not. He'd known Sands for some thirteen years. As much as the man could push his buttons he never would have wished this on him. He wouldn't even wish this on his worst enemy. He wondered what would happen to Sands now, and the scenarios that ran through Cameron's head were more than slightly disturbing.

Cameron was lost in his thoughts as the white coats took Sands, heading directly for OMS. Cameron never even looked up, not yet prepared to face Sands again as they took him away to an uncertain fate.

As the flurry of activity followed Sands out of headquarters, Cameron closed his eyes and silently prayed for Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands; it might have been the first time anyone had ever done so.

* * *

Terminology

**OMS** - Is the acronym/slang for the CIA's Office of Medical Services. This is where  
CIA employees are sent (or may go to) to get both physical and/or psychiatric treatment.

**Spooks In White (aka White Coats)** - CIA slang for The Company doctors.


	6. Spooks In White

**Chapter 6: Spooks in White**

3 Weeks Later

Sands was sitting upright in his hospital bed, listening to the buzz of all the typical hospital sounds that surrounded him.

Hurried footsteps, grieving relatives, no-nonsense doctors, beeps, whirs and rolling stretchers.

Goddamn, he was bored as hell.

Just sitting around doing nothing had never been Sands' style, and being forced to do so now irritated him no end. He despised it. The lack of activity left his mind free to do too much thinking. He'd think about the past, the present, and most frightening of all, the future.

On the outside he showed the world his normal demeanor. Officer Sands, always cool as a cucumber and able to handle any shapes thrown his way, even in the direst of situations.

Inside however, he was threatening to crumble. Actually, he always had been, but now more than ever.

The darkness, his fears, his mental instability, all rising up and attempting to eat him alive.

It didn't help that he was now blind.

It didn't help that the door to his mind had always been slightly unhinged.

And it really didn't help that the last time he'd paid OMS a little 'visit' was when he'd had his mental breakdown after…

'Fuck no, you're not thinking about that.'

Sands sighed and stretched his sore legs. As part of his therapy OMS had assigned him a psychotherapist at the beginning of the week. Sands didn't know exactly how long he'd been at OMS, but imagined it was nearing a month, and as far as he was concerned this new 'therapist' of his was a first class moron. Every day he'd sit there for two hours and listen, while the therapist asked him in a hundred and fifty different ways 'how he felt'.

'Disgusting.'

He'd been transferred out of intensive care about two weeks ago. The bullets removed and all injuries sanitized, stitched and wrapped tight. He'd been told when he was finally aware again, and not too drugged up on meds by his assigned spook in white, that nothing could be done for his eyes. He recalled sitting silently for a moment after being given the news, before biting back a bitter reply.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

The simple fact was that Sands had already known that. He'd have been an idiot not to know it.

Sands knew from the moment that the no doubt self-proclaimed Doctor Guevara revealed his instrument of torture and moved toward Sands with that insane gleam in his eye, that there would be no going back from what happened there in that dank, dark room with only his enemies as witnesses.

No three strikes and you're out.

No second chance, no do-over, no re-take.

No encores for this Broadway performance. The curtain was down and the seats were empty. Critics proclaim, this show is not groovy, happenin' or hip and should be avoided at all costs.

He would have to agree with that last statement.

Still, even though Sands knew what had happened, he couldn't bring himself to accept it, not yet, not ever.

'_No. Don't think about it._'

He supposed that's what the nosy, pipsqueak therapist was trying to do, get him to accept, but Officer Sands wouldn't bite. Besides, it was fun to string the man along, to bait him, and he got a perverse pleasure out of playing with his therapist's mind. Sands was not ignorant when it came to psychology, especially mind games and psychological warfare. After all, Sands had a Masters in the subject and he put his well-honed skills to use every day.

Sands knew the man must dread his sessions with Officer Sands.

Which meant that Sands loved every minute of it, and fucking with the man's mind was, at the very least, a break from the boring humdrum OMS life.

'I've still got the touch.'

Of course, mind games had always been one of his specialties, a specialty he once proudly admitted to Cam that he frequently used and abused.

Sands heaved another sigh as the hospital racket continued. He didn't think it was normal for him to hear it so well. His hearing had to have been heightened since… that day.

'Bored as hell…boredashellboredashellbordashell.'

Sands fingers began to tap against his thigh with impatience. He recalled one of the nurses telling him earlier that a TV was in the room if he wanted to use it, and he decided that now would be the perfect time. His hand groped around on the nightstand beside him until his fingers brushed the remote control for the TV. It then took two more minutes to figure out which way it needed to point and another minute for him to push every top and bottom button until he heard the TV click on.

At the sound Sands threw the remote back onto the nightstand with a grunt of frustration, then turned his head towards the source.

'Can't even turn the TV on to listen to it without messing around for ten fucking minutes. You're in wonderful shape, fuckmook.'

After listening intently to the TV for a few minutes, as he tried to stop his mind from racing, he came to the upsetting conclusion that it was on SoapNet.

'Vae.'

It was at that moment that Sands realized he was truly in hell. His head fell back in a gesture of defeat, until it hit the wall and pain shot through his skull.

'Wonderful… fucking fabulous.'

Sands heard the door to his room open, accompanied by the sound of light footsteps walking towards him and he quickly lifted his head back up straight.

No sense in looking even more pathetic than he already did.

Judging by the sound of the footsteps he could tell they belonged to a female. It was a nurse. Sands turned his bandaged face towards the sound. He could hear a slight clattering as she walked in and surmised she was probably bringing him some food.

"Ah, Officer Sands. I see you've discovered the TV. Your lunch is on the table here," she paused and patted the table to make sure he knew where it was, then continued "And I've been told to inform you that you'll be having a visitor today, in about an hour."

This must have been the first time she'd cared for him because he didn't recognize her voice from before. It was soft, feminine, almost musical.

For the millionth time he damned the darkness. He wished he could see her. Still, it didn't stop his mind's eye from picturing what she might look like, and he was pleased with the results that his imagination came up with.

'Better than nothing.'

"Visitor?" Sands repeated questioningly. He wasn't surprised; he was actually more shocked that he hadn't had one yet. He could think of several officers from the Company who were probably dying to talk to him, and the only explanation for such a long reprieve must have been OMS forbidding visitors. Sands hadn't minded. The delay gave him plenty of time to concoct a believable story to tell. Hell, he'd thought up several believable stories.

He also had a debrief to go through, that much he was certain of, and whatever else happened would decidedly rest on just how much the Company knew.

However Sands did wonder just who, out of the many people who no doubt wanted or needed to see him, would be the first to take a crack at it.

"Director Douglas," she answered, before leaving him to his meal, and his thoughts.

'Stop the music, baby, 'cause that ain't good.'

Douglas was the Director of Security. For him to come in person, he must really have been concerned by what went down, wrong and side-ways with Sands' operation. It was that, or Sands was going to be prosecuted. He sincerely hoped it was the former; it would make his already difficult life much easier.

Sands straightened up a little bit in determination.

He wasn't worried. Why should he be?

After all, there was a skill he prided himself on, and that was his ability to bullshit his way out of just about anything.

* * *

Latin Translations

Vae - Damn

Terminology

**The Farm (aka Camp Swampy)** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia. Also known as Camp Perry.

**OMS** - Is the acronym/slang for the CIA's Office of Medical Services. This is where  
CIA employees are sent (or may go to) to get both physical and/or psychiatric treatment.

**Spooks In White (aka White Coats)** - CIA slang for The Company doctors.


	7. Burned

**Chapter 7: Burned**

Sands had decided that the best thing to do was tell the Company as much of the truth as he thought safe. The more lies one told, the easier one got caught. The more truth he told, the harder it would be for someone else to prove that he was lying about said activity.

It was all so simple that Sands couldn't help but smile to himself.

'Find a way of telling the truth without letting anyone know what actually happened. It's that easy.'

When Director Douglas entered Sands' room a little while later, he was ready for him. Sands' mind was geared up for several scenarios, with explanations and half-truths to go with all of them. The nurse with the musical voice announced the Director's arrival, then Douglas walked over and sat by his bed as the nurse closed the door behind her.

"Hello, Officer Sands," Director Douglas started, somewhat awkwardly. Although Sands had obviously heard of the man, they'd never met before, and evidently the sight of himself with bandages all over his face, legs and arm, was a little startling. Although Sands' damned the circumstances, he liked the fact that the man was thrown off balance.

'Time to topple the man over and onto his ass.'

"Tell me…" Sands started, dispensing with a formal greeting, or a greeting of any sort for that matter. "That nurse that showed you in just now. What does she look like?" The other man started to open his mouth to say something, feeling uncomfortable, but Sands didn't wait for an answer before he continued. "Because, you see, her voice led me to conclude that she was hotter than two half-fucked squirrels in a forest fire, and the thought of a nurse with qualities such as that tending to my needs… " Sands paused for a moment and his voice dropped suggestively lower as he leaned conspiratorially toward the other man, "Well, let's just say I can whip up a couple more needs she could fulfill for me."

Sands smiled inwardly but kept his face serious on the outside. Although he couldn't see Douglas' face, he knew the man was completely taken aback and clearly at a loss for words. "I was just wondering. Oh wait, if she's not then I don't want to know. Truly, I'd rather keep my fantasy."

'Keep him off balance enough so he's open to your ideas and doesn't catch your mistakes.' Sands remembered that pearl of wisdom from… oh, hell… some professor he had had back at the Farm.

There was a long silence before the Director started again, and this pleased Sands very much. The man was not a master at interrogation; if he were, Sands little opener wouldn't have had any effect on him. But then, Douglas was Head of Security, not an interrogation officer.

Douglas cleared his throat, "Uh, Officer Sands, I'm Officer Douglas, Director of Security."

"Oh yes, I know who you are. A VIP in my very own room!" Sands put his good arm onto his chest. "Golly, what did I do to deserve the honor of your visit?"

"I think you're aware that things did not go as planned during your operation in Culiacan, Mexico…"

"Gee, and I thought getting my eyes pulled out and coming home with several new pieces of lead embedded in my body was all part of the master plan," Sands cut in acidly; he really didn't mean to - he was trying to keep his sarcasm to a minimum - but the stupidity of the statement warranted the remark.

"I'm sorry, that was stupid of me," Douglas replied apologetically, the meaning of the statement hitting him after Sands' reply.

Sands had to bite down on his lower lip to keep himself in control and not shoot off his mouth, or the guy's head. The man was lucky Sands didn't have a gun.

Breathe Jeff, breathe. You gotta stay on this guy's good side. Work now, play later.'

From Douglas' point of view, it must have looked more like a pathetic reaction rather than a means of controlling an infamous temper, because Douglas set a hand on Sands' shoulder and said, "I'm sorry about all this."

_'Save your ass now, kill him later.'_

Sands kept quiet, and waited for him to continue.

Douglas cleared his throat and then proceeded. "You'll be debriefed in a week, so I'm not going to press you for all of the hard facts at this moment, but you must understand that the roll-up of your operation is most upsetting to the Company. I need you to tell me who's responsible for your injuries and what went wrong, so that OOS can begin to assess the situation."

"The Barillo Cartel is responsible. As for what happened, a fucking bogus bona fide is what happened." Sands' speaking halted briefly, and leaned forward, towards the man's voice. "What I want to know is who the fuck was responsible for AFN Agent Ajedrez's bona fides? Whoever sent me that bona fide made one huge goddamn mistake."

"I'll check into that immediately," Douglas said seriously, and Sands heard the sound of pen or pencil on paper. "Double Agent?"

"You could say that. Ajedrez was Barillo's daughter."

Douglas raised his eyebrows as his eyes left his pen and paper. He looked back at the injured officer before him and mumbled an agitated "Damn it."

"False intelligence and a bad bona fide is responsible for the roll-up. I'd sent an eyes only bona fide request to my superior, Officer Martin, to pass it to an OOS…"

"Officer Martin was acting as Bridge Officer?" Douglas interrupted, a little surprise lacing his voice. It was not standard routine for a Head of Headquarters to act as a low asset Bridge Officer to his Head Controller.

"That was my reaction as well." Sands said as he registered the surprise in the other officer's voice.

"Didn't you inquire as to why he was off standard procedure?"

Sands' eyebrows raised. "What? Me? Officer Jeffery Sands question authority…" he paused for a moment and forced himself to adopt a serious expression as he continued mockingly, "… never."

At the other officer's silence, Sands went on. "In my request it clearly stated that I needed an extra tight security check on Ajedrez; if she passed through OOS she'd be a working agent for the Company under my handling and privy to material classified up to Flash. Double background and credential checks should have been run. Unfortunately, she was passed through the OOS clean and ended up spilling the beans, so to speak, on the entire operation to non other than Barillo himself."

"I'm going to be frank with you Officer Sands. I've glanced over your 201 File, and I'm fully aware of your record with the Company. You've been an enormous asset, gathering invaluable information for us for some ten years. I figured there must have been some sort of double agent or mole, that the error wasn't entirely yours."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. My fatal error was trusting one of **your** fucking officers to report a trustworthy bona fide." Sands snapped back. He was angry… no, angry couldn't even begin to describe how he felt. He was furious. He got that way whenever he thought about what led to the chain of events that caused the collapse of his operation.

Because Sands had known he'd been set up and hung out to dry. He had known right after talking to Martin that day at the Flying Cow, right before Ajedrez had caught up to him. He'd known because he was alone, and because no one had come to back him up.

No one had come to pull him out.

No one had come to act as his partner.

No one had come when he'd reported being shadowed.

No one had come, period.

'Except Cameron… and he wasn't even assigned to the operation.'

Sands shook his head slightly, trying to clear away the bombardment of unwanted thoughts.

'Just ask the question. You know you want to know.'

He heard Douglas say something, but wasn't really paying attention and didn't care to hear any of his meaningless apologies. "Just answer me one thing Director. Was I burned? Because really, I didn't _see_ it coming."

"Not that I'm aware, Officer Sands. You're one of our most successful officers, so I find it highly unlikely. Besides, I thought you said a bad bona fide caused-"

"A bad bona fide caused the roll-up, but that's not what I'm talking about." Sands turned his head away from Douglas and faced straight ahead before continuing. "I had called my superior… twice… before I was captured. Both times I told him my position was compromised. Both times I told him I needed back up ASAP, and both times I told him I was sure the cartel was shadowing me. I got absolutely zero support from my superior, or any fellow officers or agents on the assignment. If that doesn't make it appear that I was burned and left to hang out to dry… well then golly-gee, I don't know what would."

"Alright. You'll need to be debriefed as soon as you're healthy enough. Next Monday if you think you're up to it?"

"Fuck that! I'm up to it now." Sands was sick of waiting, of sitting here and doing nothing. He wanted to find out who was really responsible for doing this to him. Oh yes, Barillo and his cartel may have done it physically, but Sands just _knew_ that someone else was involved as well and he had a pretty good idea of who it was. It all pointed in one direction, and Sands was sure it was no coincidence.

But perhaps it wasn't just one man.

"I'll set up your debrief for Monday then. Before I go, do you know what became of the double agent, Ajedrez?" Douglas asked, and Sands paused for a couple of beats before answering.

"Terminated," Sands finally deadpanned, his face showing nothing.

"Thank you, Officer, for your time."

Douglas didn't ask how it happened or who had done it, but Sands knew the time for answers would soon come, during his debrief. Getting all those answers was not Director Douglas' job.

Sands heard the man get up and walk towards the door.

"Oh, and Director?" Sands called to him, and he heard the footsteps pause.

"You find my cell phone and the copies of my conversations with Officer Martin, and I'll give you proof." Sands let a small smile play upon his lips; it was not a pleasant one. "Although worthy of mention, it goes without saying…"

"What?" the director finally asked.

"I want to know who's responsible for this." Sands replied, one finger lightly tapping the bandages on the right side of his head to accentuate his point. "And I want that person's head on a platter. Can you dig it?"

* * *

Terminology

**Burned** - When an operative is deliberately sacrificed by his own agency to protect an operation.

**OOS** - Acronym for the Office of Security.

**Bona Fides - **Proof from OOS of a person's claimed identity.

**Flash Classified - **Second highest state of classified material. The order goes (starting w/ least important first); Routine, Priority, Immediate, Flash, Critical.

**Bridge Officer/Bridge Agent - **An operative who acts as a currier.

**201 File - **The file of an operative at CIA, with all his/her personal info, training and operation details.

**Terminated - **Murdered

**Roll-Up - **When an operation goes bad.

**Handler/Controller (aka handling in chapter) - **An officer in charge of a string of agents.


	8. Thanks For The Memories

**Chapter 8: Thanks for the memories…**

Sands could see.

He sat at the back of the room, feet up on the empty chair beside him. He was dressed in what could pass as normal clothing today, no cowboy garb or cheesy T-shirt. It was a rare thing. Today he observed his teacher standing at the head of the class, waving his hands in exaggerated gestures as he talked. His name was Professor Jonathan Saunders, and of all Sands' teachers, he was the best. He was an older man, with shortly cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a deep voice. He was quite a bit taller than Sands', with a thicker build, and adopted a confident stance at the head of the class.

In his day, he was probably quite an officer. It was the way the teacher spoke, the way he looked directly into your eyes when he taught, that had drawn Sands to this conclusion. That, and the fact that said professor was always full of little tidbits of handy tradecraft. This was the one of the few classes where Sands actually took notes.

Today Professor Saunders was talking about how to quickly disable an enemy in a conflict.

Good stuff.

"… and that's that. You've got him, end of story." He wrapped up, concluding the second technique taught for the day. "The next technique I'd like to talk about is one of the most important, so please get out your notebooks if you haven't already."

Professor Saunders went over to his desk, trading his blue dry marker for a red one. Walking over to the whiteboard he began writing on it while speaking. "If you knock out an opponent's sight quickly, they are vulnerable and the rest is easy. Go for the eyes with mace, pepper spray, your fingers, a knife; hell, even stuff you might be drinking could work. Anything you can think of that's in immediate reach could be used. Remember; don't ever waste time. If your life is threatened in the field there is only one rule, and that is to survive."

The professor stepped away from the board. Although his explanation had been a paragraph, what he wrote on the board was short, simple and to the point.

****

Blind Vulnerable Easy Target

The words on the stark whiteboard burned into Sands' eyes and etched their way into a corner of his brain. The words written in red marker on the whiteboard suddenly looked like they were dripping. It was as if they were written in blood.

As he listened wide-eyed as the professor continued his lecture, the room suddenly began to spin. His surroundings seemed to grow darker, and he felt as if he was going to pass out.

"Blind equals vulnerable…"

"Knock out an opponent's sight quickly..."

"…and the rest is easy…"

"You really didn't see it coming, did you?"

'Who the hell was that? That wasn't his professor…'

"…knock out an opponent's sight and they are vulnerable…"

The classroom around him was changing. Suddenly Sands wasn't sitting any more; he was lying on his back, feet and hands tied. The professor's face morphed and twisted, and suddenly it wasn't Jonathan Saunders anymore. No, now he was looking at Ajedrez's face in uncomfortably close proximity. He wanted to scream, to thrash angrily at his bonds, but he found it within him to stay calm. No, he wouldn't give them all the pleasure of seeing his discomfort.

"You've only seen too much."

"Oh my Christ."

Did he just say that out loud?

The sound of a drill, becoming louder as it came closer. Evil deep within those eyes moving towards him, evil that liked to torture, evil that corrupted a soul far more than even he could imagine.

A flicker of silver as it caught the light.

Pain.

The room disappeared.

Sands screamed in pain, the sound so harsh that it was as silent as death. It held an agony so intense that if sound had actually passed Sands' lips it would have been inhuman, but the scream echoed in his mind so loudly that it didn't need to emerge from his mouth, which simply opened in a silent scream.

"Officer, officer? It's all right. It's just a dream." A musical, feminine voice entered Sands' thoughts and he realized then that he was moaning out loud. He stopped and took a shaky breath.

'Shit.'

"Are you OK? That must have been some nightmare you were having," the nurse said sympathetically.

"No, it wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory."

She was silent for a moment as he slowed his breathing. "I'm sorry."

Sands wanted to be upset by the sympathy, and was preparing to snap back with some angry retort or other, but he stopped himself before the thought made it to his lips.

'Oh hell. What's the point?'

Sands shoulders slumped in defeat. He was tired, angry, frustrated and, as his dream had so humbly reminded him, feeling extremely vulnerable.

'Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.'

"I originally came in here to tell you that you have a visitor Officer Sands." She continued, sensing how he was feeling. "Would you like me to send him in now?"

'Do I have a choice?' Sands thought, but he only asked curiously "Who is it?"

"An Officer Eric Cameron."

'Cam? Why the hell would that mook come here?'

"Uh sure, it's fine with me."

A couple of minutes later he heard the door open and Cam's familiar voice echoed around the room, "Howdy. Thought I'd just drop by and see how you were doing."

'He sounds a little unsure as to why he's here as well.'

Sands moved his head towards the voice and asked, "And why would you want to do that?"

"Hell if I know."

'Well at least he was being honest.'

"I suppose I owe you my undying gratitude for coming to my rescue, but I'm not going to give it. Why don't you fuck off? Then we'd both be much happier." He was being an asshole, and he knew it. Still, he knew of no other way to deal with Cam.

However, Cameron wasn't going to bite. He had known Sands long enough to expect such a reaction. Cameron went on as if Sands hadn't said anything at all. "I brought you something."

Sands' eyebrows shot up. "Hmm, knowing the way we used to get on at the Farm I guess I better ask if it's pointy, sharp or filled with bullets."

Cam chuckled and set a medium-sized cardboard box on top of Sands' lap. "None of the above. Call it a get-well gift of sorts. It's not wrapped or anything, hope you don't mind."

Sands' mouth hung open slightly for a moment at a loss for words, before he shut it firmly and shook his head slightly as he found his voice again.

"Well I don't know if I can accept it now. Unwrapping it is all of the fun."

Sands reached down and poked the box hesitantly, like someone would poke a wounded or dead animal with a stick.

'A get-well gift? No one has ever given me a get-well gift. It must be some sort of trick, some sort of sick joke.'

He moved over the box with his hands before he grabbed hold of it, moving it right up against his ear.

"Well, I don't hear any ticking…" He shook it, but only heard a dull thud as the object shifted from side to side in the box before he continued sarcastically. "Oh gee, I hope it's not fragile."

Cam smiled at Sands' little show. He could see that Sands was unsure, suspicious and very wary… it was all written on his brow as he tried to cover it up by shaking the box around and acting like a kid with his first Christmas present. "It's not fragile, no."

Sands plopped the box back on his lap, then absentmindedly fingered one of the top flaps, considering his plan of action. This had been most unexpected.

'I guess there's no harm in opening it. If it's a joke, a trick or something insulting I can always shoot him when I'm released.'

Making his decision, Sands opened one flap and then the other, his hands tentatively reaching down into the box and feeling inside for a moment, before resurfacing with an unidentified object from the simple brown box.

Cameron smiled, and took the box back out of Sands' way. He'd had the idea about a week ago and since then had tried to work up the courage to give it to him. He stood by silently, watching Sands' confused face as he tried to figure out just what he was holding.

Sands' brow furrowed in confusion. He still wasn't used to not being able to see, and it took some concentration to figure out what he was holding. It was oblong in shape, with a deep hole on one side and a…

'Howdy'

'Why, I'll be damned…'

Somewhat unwillingly, a sly smile crept across Sands' lips. He turned the object over in his hands slowly, feeling out all its edges, and then set it on his head. He was feeling better already.

It was a cowboy hat.

He didn't know exactly what it looked like, but it didn't matter. The shape was unmistakable.

He was still Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was still the CIA Cowboy and he was still alive.

He'd be damned if he let anyone take that away from him now. It was all he had left.

---

Terminology

**Tradecraft** - Slang for the craft of the spy trade.

**Cowboy** - CIA slang. An unflattering term that denotes an intelligence person who defies the rules, regulations and conventions and conducts himself in an unprofessional, flamboyant way.  
aka a "loose cannon".

**The Farm (aka Camp Swampy)** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia. Also known as Camp Perry.


	9. Hat's Off To You

**Chapter 9: Hat's off to You**

Sands figured that he must have been quite a sight. He was sitting in a hospital bed, with bandages tightly wrapped around his eyes, legs and one arm. He imagined himself wearing the typical white hospital nightshirt, topping off the whole look with a big ass cowboy hat sitting on top of his head. It almost made him laugh… almost.

"So, does this mean you've forgiven me for that little trick I played on you Senior year at Camp Swampy?"

Cameron arched an eyebrow at the mention. "Not a chance."

---

Monday

Sands sat in his hospital bed, mentally preparing himself for what he knew would be a very challenging day.

Debrief day had finally arrived and he was to be escorted to OOS headquarters later in the morning. Sands was keyed up, and ready to go. He'd be released from OMS in another week, which was something he was extremely happy about. Yet at the same time, deep inside, fear tugged at him and refused to let go. He hated the feeling of fear; it was a feeling that he wasn't used to.

Then again, there were a lot of things of late that he wasn't used to, but that he had to live with anyway.

'I'm still standing; no one can keep me down for long. Anyone who knows you Jeff, knows that.'

His eyebrows came together with worry. There were so many things that could go wrong with his plan.

'Let's face it Jeff, you aren't exactly at the top of your game at the moment.'

'What if they know all about your dirty dealings? What will you do then?

'I'll cross that bridge when I get to it… and I don't need to worry, I've always been able to pull the wool over the Company's eyes. Why should that change now?'

'Because you have no eyes. Because you will never see again. What will you do if they retire you or throw you in prison, or an asylum? If you're lucky enough to be free, where will you go when you are released? What will the Company do if they believe you're insane or dangerous?'

Sands felt like yelling, screaming at the top of his lungs for his brain to stop thinking about his future. Sands couldn't plan ahead for this. He couldn't set things up this time. No, this time he'd have to be ready to think on his feet. He had to pull himself together because he sure as hell wasn't going to watch _himself_ fall.

He could only plan so much, until the unknown got in the way, and for days he had been doing nothing but coming up with plan after plan, and backup after backup.

Now it was time for him to be the Cowboy again, be the Officer he'd always been.

But the feeling wasn't coming to him as easily as it always had before.

His left hand reached over, his fingertips lightly brushing the cowboy hat given to him by Cam. The gift had taken him completely by surprise; no one had ever liked him enough to give him any sort of gift before, at least, not for a very long time.

'That's because you're a manipulative asshole Jeff, and that's the way you like it.'

He quickly put his hand back in his lap. Why did everything seem so different? So foreign? Why did it seem as if he was living in another world now, with no way back to the life he once knew?

'I have to find my way back. Sick, mentally ill, wounded, it doesn't matter. The show must go on.'

Because that's what it was to him really. A Show. He was on Broadway, and everybody that he manipulated or used were his co-stars, the world his audience and he the star.

"Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum_,_"Sands mumbled out loud to himself.

At least that's the way it was before the Day of the Dead, and today would be the first time he had ventured out of OMS since the infamous day.

Deep down in the depths of his soul, he was truly unnerved by the idea. Yet this place, OMS, was driving him mad. He needed to leave. He needed to find balance in his life again.

Sands was, thankfully, snapped out of his reverie by the sound of the nurse entering the room. Since she'd first come in to care for him, he'd come to know her as Crystal.

Last Friday he'd started insisting on having an all black ensemble to wear to debrief, one much like the outfit he'd been wearing when he first arrived at OMS.

He remembered the sound of the nurse's voice when he first suggested it and chuckled at the memory.

"You want what?" Crystal's perplexed voice asked Sands.

"You heard me… black jeans and a black shirt complete with boots, gloves, sunglasses… the whole shebang. Oh, and see if you can find a black cowboy style vest… one that shimmers," he continued, as if it was the most normal request in the world.

"You want a sparkly vest?!"

Sands let out a frustrated groan, "No! A shimmery vest. A Sands bad ass ensemble does not include 'sparkles'."

Everyone at OMS had scoffed at the whole idea of course; that was to be expected. But he was Sands, and after much persuasion he finally got his way and a much needed ego boost. He'd happily given Crystal his sizes and the names of some of his favorite - and oh-so-tasteful - shops in the vicinity, that sold what he'd asked for.

Crystal dumped the pile of attire on the bed next to Sands, then set a pair of black cowboy boots down on the floor.

"You told me you knew of some _tasteful_ shops to go to," she said in playful annoyance.

Sands smiled cheerfully. "It left a bad taste in your mouth, didn't it sugar-butt?"

"Yeah, you can say that again."

"It left a bad taste in your mouth, didn't it sugar-butt?"

Even though Crystal was fully aware that Sands couldn't see it, she rolled her eyes. "Sands…"

"Well, if it left a taste in your mouth, even a bad one, then it's still tasteful, right?"

Crystal smirked. As much as Sands irritated her, his annoying behavior was a sure sign that he was feeling better. "A mere technicality. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind, Officer."

"But you got what I asked for," Sands stated. It wasn't a question.

"Of course."

Sands smiled, satisfied that he'd managed to get what he wanted despite everything ranged against him.

"Will you be needing help?"

Sands' smile disappeared immediately, and turned into a frown. Crystal didn't have to be a genius to know it was time to leave. She'd bruised his ego and that was not a good thing.

"Well, buzz when you're ready," she said before beating a hasty retreat.

Sands sat on the bed for a moment, stone still, darkness surrounding him… something that would surround him for the rest of his life. He'd heard Crystal leave. Obviously she had taken the hint that he wasn't too keen on the dressing idea. Still, he briefly wondered if he really _could_ manage by himself, before quickly stomping out that idiotic thought. But a voice entered his mind, one that shook him whenever it decided to haunt the depths of his brain.

"Don't leave me alone in the dark Mommy!"

"You'll stay here until I say so Sheldon! Don't be such a fucking baby!"

'Oh Shit. Mother's voice.' It sent a chill up his spine every time he heard it, and for the last ten years or so he'd only heard it in his mind.

He was alone now and in the dark, and he'd have to get used to it.

"Don't be such a fucking baby!"

Sands' hands went to his pounding head in frustration as he willed the voice to stop taunting him, and his body shook slightly as a low, strangled noise escaped his lips.

'Ok, this is no time to freak out. Just get dressed and leave for debrief. Yes, screwing with the Interrogation Officers' heads is sure to make you feel better. Now get yourself decked out so Crystal can take you to debrief.'

After a few deep breaths Sands managed to gain control of himself once again. He reached over until his hands hit the pile of clothing, and proceeded to get ready for his debrief.

Today was an important day for Officer Sands, for it would decide his future.

---

Latin Translations

Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum._ - _A little song, a little dance.

---

Terminology

**The Farm (aka Camp Swampy)** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia. Also known as Camp Perry.

**OOS** - Acronym for the Office of Security.

**OMS** - Acronym for the Office of Medical Services.

---

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Wow, I never hoped to have so many reviews. Thanks so much... ALL OF YOU who have been reviewing and thanks to anyone who is reading too. You're all wonderful! ;)

Scarlett


	10. Howdy Partner

**Chapter 10: Howdy Partner**

Sands had just finished up changing for debrief when he heard the door open and close quickly.

"Sands!" Crystal reprimanded, as she caught sight of his face after entering his room.

Sands had removed all the bandages from his face and they were strewn on his bed in a haphazard manner.

Crystal knew she should be strict and demand that the bandages go back on at once, but she felt a twinge of sympathy for the officer before her, and decided to let it go as she saw the look of warning on Sands' face. She knew she'd have a hell of a time trying to get the damn things back on now anyway, and they weren't really even necessary anymore. The bleeding had stopped a couple weeks ago.

"You shouldn't have removed your bandages Sands," Crystal said, without much conviction in her voice.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to my debrief looking like King Tut… although, the King part does have a nice ring to it." Sands' tone indicated the decision was over and done with and he wasn't going to budge.

She sighed in resignation; Sands was the type of man that needed to feel that he had control, even now. Or perhaps especially now. Crystal couldn't help but notice as she looked at him, without the bandages bound around his face, how darkly attractive he was. With the dark sunglasses in place, one would never know the damage that lay beneath them. Of course she hadn't actually seen it herself, but one of the nurses that saw his wounds when he'd first come in had told her about it… and that had been enough for her.

"You ready to go, Cowboy?" she teased as he lifted his head a bit higher, satisfied that he'd won the little game.

"Ready when you are, sugar-butt."

---

Crystal led Sands into one of the debrief rooms at OOS. He'd been here many times in the past so although he couldn't see the room now, he knew how it was set up and what it looked like… exactly.

Sands had become very well acquainted with them, not only during his own debriefs, but during his days as a rookie when he was an Interrogations Officer, doing an occasional debrief here and there when his days were slow. Of course, both jobs had been a perfect fit, considering his knack for messing with people's minds.

'Soundproof room, one medium size table in the middle with one chair facing another. Dimly lit for a more calming effect on the debriefee, with just one light in the center of the ceiling directly above the table.'

Listening to the sounds of the room, Sands was able to establish that the light was on, because he could hear the faint hum of electricity emanating from it as he sat in one of the chairs, Crystal still by his side.

On most occasions, only one officer would debrief another. However Sands suspected he might get two officers because he was always such a pain in the ass during debriefings. It had happened before; with the way Sands talked during debrief it often took two people just to follow what he was saying.

'Why make it easy for 'em?'

The Debrief Officer wasn't always armed, and whether or not he or she was or wasn't depended on the individual.

When Sands had done his debriefs and interrogations, he'd always been armed.

'One of my personal favorites for interrogation intimidation. It is surprising how many mind games can be played with a loaded gun.'

Normally Sands would hand in a report at this time as well, with detailed intelligence and information on his clandestine operations. The report would also include the names of officers and agents who had worked along side him, blow back reports, outcome, casualty tally and, in this case, reasons why the operation eventually rolled up and the events leading to his injury.

However, Sands had been unable to make such a report while in OMS so he assumed that they'd cover all that in debrief and substitute the tape-recorded conversation for his report.

Sands leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, fully aware that it was body language for being closed off, as he heard another person enter the room.

'Just be Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands and you'll eat this guy alive.'

"I'm sorry Miss Powers, you'll have to leave now. You can wait outside in the lobby and we'll come for you after we've finished with debrief," the man said to Crystal, who was still standing beside Sands.

Sands cocked his head slightly to the side as he thought.

'I know that voice… very well. My old interrogation partner, Mike Gleason. Naturally, it's just the Company's style to get my old partner to debrief me. Lucky for me, he never was very good. Mikey always did rely on his partners to get the information while he just stood there and looked intimidating. Of course, Mikey looking intimidating isn't going to work on me for multiple reasons, some more obvious than others.'

This revelation made Sands extremely happy. He didn't hear Crystal reply to Mike and figured that she must have nodded her head, because after a brief moment of silence she patted him lightly on the arm in a show of support, before leaving him alone with his old partner.

"Hiya, Mikey! Long time, no _see_ eh?" Sands drolly remarked after Crystal left the room, feeling the tension in the air rise at his ironic comment. Sands knew full well Mike had been briefed on his condition.

"Sands." He greeted him stiffly, obviously uncomfortable. Sands didn't break the tension, but remained quiet, gaining strength from Mike's discomfort. "This is just a debrief, so let's not make it more difficult than it already is."

Sands cocked an eyebrow, but still remained silent.

Mike shifted his weight uncomfortably. He'd never liked nor trusted Sands. When they had worked together, his old partner had always loved making sure Mike knew his place in the duo. Mike was to shut up and be quiet, while Sands "_worked his magic_", as Sands himself once put it. Mike did have to admit that Sands was awesome at mind games, but Sands also knew he was awesome, and that ate at Mike every time he saw Sands. Even now, blind and completely at the mercy of the Company, Sands sat before him clad all in black appearing as bad ass as ever and just as cocky and sure of himself to boot.

'I'll never understand how Sands does it.'

Sands listened intently, waiting for Mike to say something. Mike was armed, unsurprisingly; he could hear the familiar sound of the gun's holster against a pair of jeans. '_Still not good at breaking the ice. Obviously he doesn't know whether or not he should acknowledge my "condition".'_

"My mother once said that some things are better left unsaid," Sands finally said, fake sweetness lacing his tone, as Mike sat across from him. He heard Mike sigh, and Sands wondered if it was a sigh of relief or frustration. Sands smirked before continuing; "Then again, she said it, so I guess she didn't really play by the rules."

At this point Sands imagined that Mike was rolling his eyes.

"Much like you," Mike replied knowingly.

"The nut doesn't fall far from the tree," Sands said with a smirk. "So, who's the other lucky Officer who gets the pleasure of debriefing Officer Sands? Anyone that I've had the pleasure of annoying? Don't tell me you're going to do it alone?"

"No, I don't believe he's had the _pleasure_ of meeting you Sands," Mike told him, using the word pleasure extremely loosely. "Officer Lake will be your second debrief Officer, and he's a rookie... so try not to kill him or make him go insane."

"Ah, fresh blood." Sands flashed an evil grin, teeth shimmering in the dim light.

Mike narrowed his eyes at his ex-partner, sensing mayhem in Sands' devious mind. "Be nice."

The door to the debrief room opened again, and Officer Lake stepped inside as Sands replied to Mike, "Now let's be rational Mikey. In all the years we've worked together I'd think you'd know me well enough by now to know that what you've just requested is an impossibility."

Mike grunted in reply.

"Oh, you two have worked together?" Lake asked conversationally, as he entered the room and moved to stand next to the table beside Mike, setting down the tape recorder and getting it ready.

Sands turned towards the sound of his voice, "You could say that. Or you could say that we just annoyed the hell out of each other until the Company decided it best to find us both new partners."

Lake chuckled at what he thought was a joke, as he sat down across from Sands, not knowing what he was in for. Mike glanced over at Lake, but the rookie was messing with the tape recorder and not paying attention. He'd warned Lake about Sands' rather unusual personality and infuriating ways beforehand, but doubted he'd got his message across as strongly as he would have liked. Making himself comfortable in his chair, Mike decided that one had to experience Sands to fully understand… and the rookie was definitely about to get the full Sands experience, whether he wanted it or not. Just looking at Sands Mike could tell that his ex-partner was in one of his more confrontational moods. Then again, he couldn't really blame Sands after all he'd been through.

Sands just smiled and relaxed further into his chair._ 'I'm going to have fun with this one.'_

"Officer Sands, my name is Richard Lake. Mike and I will be debriefing you today."

"Peachy keen."

"I'm sorry to hear about your injuries, but we're glad to have you back," Lake continued, no real emotion in his voice.

'He's definitely come directly from the Farm; _those words are straight out of the textbook for debriefing an officer injured on the job.'_

"Yes well, the Company couldn't get rid of me that easily." Sands could hear Lake hitting the record button.

"Could you please state your name, position and operation location for the record?"

"Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands. Controller in Culiacan, Mexico." Sands could hear Lake suppressing a snicker at hearing his first name, and Mike kicking him roughly under the table to silence him.

Mike knew what kind of wrath Sands could bring down when angry, and already the rookie was baiting him... it didn't bode well for the kid.

'Amateur hour,' Sands thought, disgusted, but kept his face an emotionless mask, as Officer Lake stated the date and time for the record.

"Now Officer Sands, I'd like to get this started-" Lake began, only to be immediately interrupted by Sands' cool voice.

"Oh, by all means. Let's shoot the breeze."

Lake dutifully ignored the interruption and continued. "Please begin by telling us what intelligence you've gained pertaining to the Barillo Cartel, the Assassination attempt on the President of Mexico, your operation's outcome, how you came to be injured and what caused the roll up."

Sands leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, folding his hands together and completing one last mental ego boost before starting.

Today Officer Sands was going to be extremely economical with the truth.

---

Terminology

**Economical with the truth** - Not CIA slang or anything, but a saying that means one is conveying an untrue version of events by leaving out important facts. Simply put, when someone's lying.

**Roll-Up - **When an operation goes bad.

**Briefed** - When an Officer/Agent is told pertinent facts before executing an assignment, job, operation etc.

**The Farm (aka Camp Swampy)** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia. Also known as Camp Perry.

**OOS** - Acronym for the Office of Security.

**OMS** - Acronym for the Office of Medical Services.


	11. Disinformation

**Chapter 11: Disinformation**

"How about a cigarette first?" Sands asked the two debrief officers before him. He was really starting to miss his habitual hourly cigarette. He hadn't had one since the day Lake was questioning him about.

"Sands, you know that it's against policy to smoke in a debrief room." Mike stepped in.

"Screw it. It's against policy to smoke anywhere anymore, anyway. But I'm here to tell you about some pretty fucked up shit, so I think it's the least you two could do," Sands smirked. "Besides, I'd kill for a cigarette right about now, and getting between me and my cigarettes makes me very, well, let's just say… unpleasant."

Mike, knowing Sands wouldn't let it drop, and probably meant the word kill quite literally, started digging into his pocket and produced a cigarette from his own pack, passing it to Sands despite Lake's protests. Sands put the cigarette in his mouth and it hung there as Mike handed him a lighter.

"Gracias," Sands said, with the cigarette dangling from his mouth, proceeding to light it carefully. It was a little more difficult to light a cigarette when you couldn't see the end of it.

Lake, trying to remain professional, repeated his question as he watched Sands struggle to light up, until he finally succeeded. "Please, tell us what you know Officer Sands."

'They're in a rush. That's good. That's very good.'

"Well, you see," Sands started, speaking in his unique monotone drone. "There are known knowns… that is to say, things that I know I know. There are also known unknowns, that is to say things I know I don't know."

Sands paused for a moment and held up a solitary gloved finger as if to accentuate his last point. "But there are also unknown unknowns… things I don't know that I don't know."

Lake stared at Sands, trying to disentangle the sentence, as Mike closed his eyes and shook his head. Sands hadn't changed much since the last time he'd seen him.

Sands took a long drag off his cigarette and relaxed back into his chair. He was the master of saying things that sounded like utter nonsense, but really made perfect sense if you sat and thought about them long enough.

In the awkward silence Sands took the opportunity to tap the first ashes of his cigarette off onto the table, not bothering to ask for an ashtray or find something to catch them. He gave Lake a burdened moan before he spoke, "Look kid, why don't you ask me one question at a time? That way, you'll get specific answers to specific questions and the Company will be happy with this here debrief."

Sands smirked as he took another puff. He knew the Company would already be unhappy with everything recorded so far, and that it would be crystal clear who was in charge. Sands.

"Very well," Lake said, clearly aggravated at being called 'kid' and being told how to do his job. "Please begin by telling us about the human intelligence you gathered."

"No need. A day before the roll-up I sent a full and detailed report with all the HUMINT that I'd gathered since my last report. No new HUMINT to tell the Company at this time."

"But what about the roll-up?" Lake asked, knowing there had to be more since Sands had been caught so off guard.

"Well you didn't ask about the roll-up. You asked about the HUMINT."

Sands noticed the growing frustration in Lake's voice as he continued.

"Please tell us about the roll-up then Officer Sands, and how the operation turned into a wet job."

Sands took another puff off his cigarette. "Shouldn't you ask me, for the record of course, what my operation objective was to begin with?"

Lake's face grew a bit red. Of course Sands couldn't see it, but Mike interjected at the kids change of color. "Just answer the questions as they're asked Officer Sands."

Sands put on a fake pout, "But… you're doing it all wrong."

"Just answer the question!" Lake burst out, finally losing his temper.

Sands eyebrows shot up. "No need to shout Officer. My hearing is _very_ good, I assure you."

"What caused the roll-up, Sands?"

"What happened to Officer?"

"Damn it, _Officer _Sands, I told you to take it easy on the kid," Mike cut in. He'd seen this coming, but had no real way of stopping it.

"Alright, but I think you both should know, I am taking it easy, on both of you." Sands took another drag, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. Cigarette in hand, he was already feeling like his old self. His old self on a bad day, anyway. "What caused the roll up was a bad bona fide on AFN Agent Ajedrez. After she was cleared by OOS for up to Flash Classified intelligence, Ajedrez was hired by yours truly as an Agent. She was working under my control in Culiacan. She was to leak false intelligence to the Barillo Cartel, specifically Armando Barillo himself. However, she leaked the real intelligence instead. As it turned out, she was a mole for Barillo, and as you can imagine, that put a little kink in my spiffy well-planned plan."

"That just sounds like bad HUMINT, Officer Sands. Why do you say a bad bona fide is the reason for the roll up?"

Sands slowly let out his deep inhalation of cigarette smoke. "I'd say someone at OOS should have caught the tiny detail that she was Armando Barillo's daughter. Needless to say, things got a wee bit dangerous after I found out that little tidbit. Catch my drift?"

"What became of Armando Barillo and Ajedrez?"

"Both terminated."

"By you?"

"I terminated Ajedrez, purely in self defense of course. I did not, however, terminate Armando Barillo. That would be one of those unknown unknowns I was speaking of. I have reason to believe that retired FBI Agent Ramirez was the executioner."

"Why do you think that?"

"Well, I was having a bit of a bad day… being tortured, shot up and having your eyes removed does take its toll on a person. After all that, I wasn't able to do much of anything in the way of gaining intelligence for the Company. However, they do have my deepest apologies for that." Sands sighed, his cigarette burning down too quickly for his liking.

'It is still so hard to think about that day.'

"My point being that Ramirez ran across me after the coup and informed me of Armando Barillo's death. Years ago, Barillo had tortured Ramirez's partner, and then killed him, so it doesn't take a genius such as myself to put two and two together and make such an assumption."

Lake frowned as he realized that he only had one last question to ask at this time, and it was one that he was not looking forward to.

"Would you mind telling us how you were captured by the Barillo cartel, and the events that happened after your capture?"

"Tuis pugis pignore."

Lake blinked, confused, and asked Sands, "What?" as he looked at Mike. Mike was about to answer, but Sands went ahead and did it for him.

"It's Latin, kiddo. Don't they even touch on Latin at the Farm anymore?" Sands shook his head in mock dismay. "Roughly it translates to 'You bet your bippy', and to translate that for you it means that I do mind, seeing as I'll have to live with what happened that day for the rest of my life." Sands paused, and could feel the cigarette starting to burn his fingertips. Hoping they didn't catch that little blunder, he stubbed out what remained of the cigarette. He immediately regretted his last comment. He'd felt so good before, but admitting to the consequences of his failed operation out loud sobered him pretty fast.

At Sands' abrupt change in mood, and unnatural silence Mike prodded gently. "Sands?"

'I don't want to talk about what happened. I don't want to think about what happened. I don't even want to remember what happened.'

Snapping out of his reverie, Sands continued. "I suppose I have no choice but to tell you. Vae. I need another cigarette."

This time neither of them protested at his request, Mike giving Sands another cigarette, already lit for him. Sands inhaled deeply. '_Ah, I did so miss smoking.'_

"I knew things had gone sideways as soon as my hired agents began pulling grand disappearing acts. First it was Cucuy, and after that El Mariachi—"

"El… as in 'The'?"

"Wow, you are a true master of languages, Lake," Sands snorted. "Yes, as in 'The'. Don't know what happened to either of them, if they survived or not. I do know that Cucuy double crossed me at the first chance he got, so I wouldn't give a rat's ass if he were lying in a ditch somewhere. As for El… there was a hell of a lot of shooting going on during the coup, but he is rather capable of handling himself, so who knows?" Sands was almost positive El was alive; the man was a fighter and simply too damned stubborn to die. "Ramirez was the only one of my hired agents that stuck with me to the roll-up. Ramirez was tailing Barillo, and as I said before, I believe he eventually took him out. It was obvious to me that I was being shadowed by the cartel, so I called my superior, Martin, and told him what was going on. That I was being shadowed, my agents had all turned on me or vanished, and that I needed back up. As a matter of fact, I called him a total of three times that morning voicing my concerns about the operation and asking for at least one other officer to assist me. Martin did nothing, of course.

"On our third conversation he hung up on yours truly and I made my way over to _La Vaca Volando _to figure out my next move."

"Why did you go there?"

"I was to meet Agent Ajedrez there. At the time, I wasn't aware that she was a mole." Sands tapped his cigarette, and the ashes fell onto the table. "Plus, they serve good slow roasted pork there and I was hungry."

"I see."

"I half expected her to not show up, with my luck that day. Now, looking back on it, I wish she hadn't."

Strands of Sands' shoulder length black hair fell across his face as he spoke, and he quickly pushed them back behind his ear. "I called Martin one last time from the restaurant and told him my position had been compromised and again reiterated that I needed back up. He finally agreed to send some, but it was a little late. I remember after my phone call Ajedrez showed up and sat across from me. She had a smug look on her face and said 'You really didn't see it coming, did you?'. I didn't have a chance to reply. Someone came from behind and stuck a needle into my neck. I don't know exactly what they gave me, but it was powerful. I only remember her smiling as I stumbled out of the restaurant. They didn't try to stop me; they knew I wouldn't get far. I remember passing out after getting about a block. The next thing I remember is waking up, strapped to a table… after that my memory is pretty fuzzy. I was hopped up on a hell of a lot drugs apparently. Ajedrez, Barillo and Dr. Guevera were there, as well as some other members of the cartel. Don't know their names. It was then that Ajedrez informed me that she was Barillo's daughter. I saw a man all wrapped up in bandages, and asked if it was Barillo. It was. He stated that I'd been spying on his operation for some time now and I remember saying something about 'killing me would be crossing the line and Marines would be up his keister in no time if they did terminate me'." Sands chuckled, an odd, humorless, tension-releasing noise that broke the room's silence. "Not the best comeback, I must admit. He didn't ask me for any information on the operation. I assume he got what he wanted from Ajedrez. He then told me that fortunately I hadn't done anything worth dying over; that I'd only **seen** too much. It was then that…" Sands trailed off, his voice a little unsteady despite his best attempts to hide it. The other two officers must have been stone still, as Sands could barely even hear them breathing, much less moving.

'Jesus Jeff, it's over. Stop getting all caught up in it! You must look pathetic.'

"Stop being such a fucking baby!"

He cleared his throat, and moved to finish up his second cigarette, which was dangling from his fingers. "That's when Dr. Guevera appeared, and he took my eyes. After that, it's all very hazy. I was in a lot of pain. I could hear them all laughing as they untied me and stood me up. Someone handed me my sunglasses and pushed me through the room's door. I eventually made it outside and paid off a little boy to take me to a taxi. However, someone was following me, and I took out a small .22 I had hidden. Turned out Ajedrez and another cartel member were following me, I guess they really had no intention of letting me live after all. Since I couldn't see my attackers, I had to listen for them. Someone shot me in the leg, and Ajedrez taunted me a few times." Sands smiled bitterly, "That was her downfall. I was able to zero in on her voice and shoot her. The man got a couple pieces of lead in me before I could return his favor. After that I talked to Ramirez. Ramirez left and I sent the boy to go get a taxi. It took me to _La Vaca Volando_ where Officer Cameron picked me up. I assume you know the rest."

Sands took a deep breath as he concluded the account, the lies intertwined within the truth coming effortlessly. He certainly wasn't going to tell them that after he had been tortured he'd gone to get the money, planning to split it with Ajedrez, and offed a couple more cartel members in the process. Nor that he had murdered Belini for valuable information about the cartel. Not even the more humorous information about how he'd bet on bullfights and made sure the bet would go his way, using the earnings to pay off informants.

Really, it was a rather brilliant scheme, he had to admit. Easy dough.

"How did you know Officer Cameron would be at _La Vaca Volando_?"

Sands took another drag off his cigarette and his eyebrows furrowed together. "I told Martin that I was waiting at _La Vaca Volando_ in our last telephone conversation, when he told me he'd send back up for me, finally. It was too late for it to do me much good, but at least I got out of Culiacan. Come to think of it, it's rather odd that it was Officer Cameron that pulled me out. He certainly wasn't assigned under Officer Martin. I hadn't even been privy to the information that he was in Mexico."

"That's one of the many problems we're finding, Officer Sands."

"What, pray tell, do you mean Lake?"

"Officer Cameron was assigned to a totally unrelated assignment in a nearby town. However, according to Officer Martin, he never called Officer Cameron. As a matter of fact, he said that he had never even heard of an Officer Cameron before your exfiltration."

"That's interesting."

"Officer Martin also said that he never spoke to you that day either. Not once."

Sands frowned. '_Well Jeff, I guess you know for sure now. He definitely wanted to burn you.'_

"Well, that's truly unbelievable," Sands said at last. Sure, Sands hadn't told the two Officers anything about his cook killing or his covert attempts to retrieve the 20 million pesos, but he certainly had been telling the truth when it came to his conversations with Officer Martin.

"That may be, but Martin also told us that you went rogue some time ago, and that he hadn't heard from you in over a week."

"Credo quia absurdum est."

Lake sighed, "Pardon?"

"Never mind." Sands exhaled heavily.Something had to be done about Martin."I guess I'll just have to prove that in the current situation, I'm the one to be trusted."

---

Latin Translations

Credo quia absurdum est. - _I believe it because it is unreasonable._

Vae – _Damn_

---

Terminology

**Disinformation** - False information purposely given to mislead.

**Roll-Up - **When an operation goes bad.

**HUMINT** - Acronym for Human Intelligence

**Compromised **- When an agent or officer's true identity or mission has been uncovered and the future of the operation is shaky.

**The Farm (aka Camp Swampy)** - Insider slang for the CIA's training camp/spy school, located in Virginia. Also known as Camp Perry.

**Shadowed** - Being followed.

**Burn/Burned** - When an agent is deliberately sacrificed.

**Mole** - A person inside a government agency, usually an intelligence agency, who is obtaining information about that organization's secrets and activities.

**OOS** - Acronym for the Office of Security.


	12. Executive Action

**Chapter 12: Executive Action**

"Trust you? That would be new," Mike uttered, causing Sands to arch a dark eyebrow in his general direction.

"Well, yes… I do admit it would be a new experience for you," Sands said wryly as he stubbed out his second cigarette. He'd been careful to pay attention to how long he'd been holding it so as not to repeat his earlier blunder. "However, knowing that you'd have a difficult time trusting your dear ol' partner Officer Sands, I will not ask you to rely on faith or loyalty. I have something better for you Mikey. I have proof."

"Proof?" Lake exclaimed, stepping in "What possible proof could you have?"

"Tell me Officer Lake, do I strike you as a stupid man? You can tell the truth," Sands said, his demeanor calm as he again leaned back in his chair, but an edge of warning creeping into his tone. "I won't kill you for speaking your mind. I might shoot you where the sun don't shine, but I won't kill you Officer Lake."

Lake cleared his throat uncomfortably at the vision Sands' words conjured up, but he regained his composure quickly as reality struck him. Officer Sands was blind, he probably couldn't even hit Lake if he tried, assuming that Sands had a gun in the first place.

"All you have to do is find my cell phone. It has a tracking device in it so it shouldn't be too difficult for the Company to find. If you manage to produce it, I might even develop a tiny smidgen of respect for the two of you," Sands continued, not waiting for an answer to his first question.

Mike looked at Lake and rolled his eyes, and Lake in turn looked at the perturbing officer.

Sands was leaning far back in his chair, the two front feet off the ground as he swayed the chair back and forth, looking totally full of himself.

Lake had really had enough of Sands macho bullshit.

Lake hit the stop button on the tape recorder. He doubted he'd get anything else important out of Sands in this meeting, and if by chance he did, he could just write it down. Besides, he had something he wanted to say that would be less than professional and frowned upon by the Company.

"You didn't strike me as a stupid man until your last sentence, Officer Sands," Lake replied calmly, even as Mike gave him a serious warning glance and shook his head slightly to say 'no'. Lake ignored him and went on, "How is a blind – **handicapped** – Officer, such as yourself, Officer Sands, going to shoot an able-bodied, fit officer, such as myself, when he can't even see his target… especially when he doesn't even have a gun in the first place?"

The front legs of Sands' chair hit the floor with a thud.

Mike was speechless, and he noticed that Sands was too.

'I swear it's like watching a train wreck,' Mike thought to himself._ 'Oh Lake, you idiot! Sands is going to kill you, and he certainly won't need a gun to do it.'_

Mike thought to himself. 

"Officer Lake, that was way out of line! Are you forgetting that you are addressing a superior officer?" Mike said, his tone authoritative and slightly disgusted. Lake had gone way too far for any officer, but to call Officer Sands handicapped and stupid? That was suicide.

'Sands is a dangerous man, a brilliant man, a psychotic man, but he certainly isn't a helpless man. He could never be that.' Of that, Mike was sure.

Sands was sitting there, deathly silent, as his brain digested the words Lake had said to him. It was as if the world around him was in slow motion and the words only slowly started to sink in.

Blind. Stupid. Handicapped.

"How is a blind – handicapped – Officer such as yourself…"

'Did Lake, that no-good rookie, just call me **handicapped**, stupid and blind? That son-of-a-bitch, I'll fucking kill him. I'll show him who's the stupid one. I swear I'll blow his fucking head off.'

'Well you are blind, what do you expect? He does have a point.'

Sands' brows came together in a rush. The room was silent, waiting for his reaction as his mind argued with itself. Sands hated when his mind did this; it was during these times that he would think about all that had happened, and all it would truly mean.

'No. No. Lake doesn't have a point. I'm Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands and I am **not** handicapped. There is no way in hell I'm ever letting anyone get away with calling me that, **ever**.'

Mike and Lake stood still, watching Sands intently. The tension in the debrief room was so thick you couldn't have blasted through it with a grenade launcher. Evidently even Lake knew he'd crossed the line. Too bad he didn't think before he talked.

'Say something, fuckmook. You're just proving to him that he's right.'

Sands forced himself to snap out of the one-man argument he was having and flashed Lake an evil grin full of malice as he gave him the finger. "Climb it Tarzan."

Both Lake and Mike exhaled deeply as Sands finally broke the silence. Mike was still quite worried however, knowing it wasn't like Sands to let something like this go so easily.

"I-I'm sorry Sands, Lake had no right." Mike apologized, trying to figure out what was going through Sands' mind. '_He has to be planning something.'_

Sands said nothing, only lowering his head slightly as he let his hand drop to his side. His brow was furrowed as if frustrated. Actually, he almost looked defeated.

This worried Mike; as a matter of fact he got a downright chill.

Mike walked over to Sands slowly, cautiously, just as one would approach a dangerous wild animal. As he did so, Lake spoke again, "See Mike? I knew Sands was all talk and no show. Just a lot of hot air and bullshit."

Mike, now by Sands side, spun around to face Lake._ 'The kid must have a death wish. That can be the only explanation for his stupidity.'_

Sands listened intently, knowing he was on the verge of losing his cool. He heard Mike defending him. _'Well look at that, the man is good for somethin' after all.'_ He concentrated deeply on the sounds around him, a thought taking form. '_Mike is standing right beside me…'_

"What's gotten into your head, Lake?!" Mike replied, as he shot Lake a scathing glare. Unfortunately, this caused Mike to let his guard down, and a highly peeved Sands was sitting next to him. It was not a good combination.

Sands let a small smile creep across his face; both officers too busy sparring with each other to notice the look of mischief. Lake was saying something else, the idiot no doubt insulting him again… but Sands wasn't paying attention to **what** was being said… no, what concerned him was **where** it was being said.

Sands was so quick that the two other officers in the room didn't even see it happening until Sands stood up sharply with the automatic in his right hand.

Sands had easily zeroed in on the sound of his former partner's gun in its holster. With expert precision he'd snaked his hand across Mike's back, freeing the gun from the holster and owner, and into Sands' dangerous possession within a mere couple seconds.

'Now things will get interesting,' Sands thought wickedly as he lifted the gun, training it on Lake's voice. Lake immediately stopped talking.

He heard Mike start to move towards him and he swung around, training the weapon on his old partner.

"Don't get into this, ol' pal. I'd hate to have to shoot you too, because the truth is I kinda like you."

Mike wisely backed off and the gun zeroed back in on Sands' main target, as Lake started backing towards the door.

"Oh no, no, no, Lake… you're not getting away that easy. One more step to that door you're undoubtedly trying to flee through, one call for help and I will shoot you. I swear I'll blow your fucking brains out… and believe me, I won't miss." He paused and cocked his head to one side. "You follow?"

Lake wisely stopped moving.

"Sands…" Lake started meekly, but stopped almost as quickly, at a loss for words as he stared at the now frightening figure of a black-clad Sands with a gun zeroed in on him.

Sands knew the kid was scared to death, which was exactly what he wanted.

A menacing smile crept across Sands lips as he slowly and stealthily made his way closer to Lake, making sure to remember where the desk and chairs were. Sands felt like he was there in Mexico again, using his newly heightened sense of hearing to bring the cartel men - and women - down.

He could almost feel the heat of the Mexican sun beating down on him, feel the dust off the street enter his lungs…

'Snap out of it!'

Sands was directly in front of Lake now, the gun still aimed at Lake's chest… much to Lake's surprise.

"What's the matter Lake? Cat got your tongue?" Sands asked him, tilting his head. He knew Lake was surprised at the sudden development, and he knew that Mike was not.

"Sands, he's just a stupid kid. Please…" Mike tried one last time, and Sands head snapped around to face him briefly.

"Stay out of this Mikey, I'm handling it," Sands said to Mike before turning his head back to Lake and speaking to him in a dangerously flippant voice, "and when I say I'm handling it…" he paused for dramatic effect, "I'm handling it."

Sands edged closer to Lake, gun still poised at the ready, not wavering an inch. Lake took a step back, but Sands was too close and his left arm quickly grabbed for Lake's neck. Since he couldn't see him he had to guess where that might be. He missed, instead only getting a firm hold on Lake's jacket, but it would do.

Sands yanked Lake closer as his left hand quickly found its way to Lake's neck. Their faces were only a couple of inches apart now and Sands could hear the shaky breaths Lake was taking.

The rookie was terrified.

Sands gave his neck a squeeze and slowly backed Lake up until he felt Lake's body press into the wall.

Sands smiled wider. "N'ayez pas peur," Sands purred dangerously, using the different languages to keep Lake worried, one of his favorite tactics. Sands clicked off the gun's safety so Lake would know he meant business.

Sands leaned forward a little more, his face almost touching Lake's, before whispering "It means… don't be afraid."

Sands roughly shoved the barrel of the gun under Lake's chin. Mike said something to him, but Sands wasn't listening.

"I-I-I didn't mean… t-t-to insult you. It just slipped out, I-" Lake stuttered, but was cut off by Sands.

"Flocci non facio! You said it, and now it's time for you to pay the piper." Sands breathed in deeply through his nose and Lake could swear Sands could smell his fear.

"Handicapped, am I? Wouldn't be able to shoot you if I tried? Then how do you, pray tell, an able-bodied and fit young officer, explain the current situation? Held at gunpoint by a blind, handicapped officer who's all talk and no show, huh?" Sands pressed the barrel of the gun harder into the officer to accentuate his point.

"You've underestimated me, and now things have gotten a wee bit dangerous… haven't they?" Sands said. The chill in his voice could freeze water. "Take a right leer, dear Lake. See that? It's your partner doing nothing to save your lousy hide. Do you know why?" Sands asked, waiting for a reply. He was greeted with silence. "Do you?!" Sands repeated forcefully.

"No," Lake said, his voice barely audible.

"Because Mike Gleason knows me, he knows how dangerous I really am, and he knows that I'm more than just talk… savvy? I can put on quite a show as well."

Lake gulped, trying to swallow the lump that had lodged in his throat.

"You wouldn't dare kill me, a fellow officer, here at OOS," Lake stated, sounding more than a little unsure of himself as his voice wavered slightly.

Sands raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and leaned into Lake, whispering almost silently into his ear, barely loud enough for Lake to even make it out.

"Oh yes I would."

* * *

Latin Translations

Flocci non facio - I don't give a damn

Terminology

**Executive Action** - Assassination.

**OOS** - Acronym for the Office of Security.


	13. Chokepoint

**Chapter 13: Chokepoint**

Lake felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. Sands was only slightly taller than him but he seemed to loom over him in his black ensemble, his pitch black hair falling across his face, while a black-gloved hand held onto his neck, the other on the trigger of Mike's gun. The black glasses reflected the dim light emanating from above them and Sands' face was abnormally calm for such a drastic situation.

Yes, Sands looks fully capable of murder at the moment.

The cold barrel of the gun chilled Lake's skin and he realized that he was truly at this madman's mercy. If he moved for the gun, or did anything rash, Sands would probably shoot him, and it only took half a second to pull the trigger of a gun.

"What do you want me to do, Sands?" Lake finally asked. Sands tilted his head to one side, then the other, considering his answer.

"Well now, I don't know that I want you to do anything, Lake." Sands held on tighter to Lake's neck as he moved the gun away from his chin and aimed it towards a much lower region of Lake's body. "It might take a couple of shots for me to hit the target, but as for your dangerously stupid assumption that I won't be able to hit you, well, I think I can prove you wrong Mr. Lake."

"No…" Lake whispered. Threatening to kill a man was one thing. Threatening to take his manhood altogether, well that was another thing, and frankly, it frightened him more.

"No?" Sands asked innocently, before kneeing the man in the crotch full force. Lake gasped and started to double over, but Sands still had a firm grip on the man and continued to hold him against the wall.

Sands shoved the barrel of the gun into the man's crotch. Lake's groan satisfied him that he'd hit his mark. "No… what?"

"No, please don't shoot me," Lake pleaded pathetically. "Please."

Sands snorted, thoroughly enjoying his position of power; it was, after all, what he lived for.

'The man is an inexperienced coward of a kid, but he needs to be taught a lesson, and I'm just the one to do it.'

Sands jolted the kid against the wall again, shaking him up. "You do realize how pathetic you are, don't you?"

Mike watched as Lake's eyes widened in worry. Unlike Lake, Mike wasn't really worried for the kid's life. Sands would have shot him by now, if he was going to do it; at least he sincerely hoped that was the case.

"Yes," Lake whispered hoarsely, his pride thoroughly broken.

Sands smiled widely. His grip on Lake's neck tightened, making it hard for the other man to breathe.

Mike shifted his weight, and the thought of intervening while Sands was occupied crossed his mind. However, the idea was quickly dispelled by Sands' voice. "Don't even think about it, Mikey."

Sands was holding the kid in what could only be called a death grip, and the kid looked about ready to pass out. It seemed that the only real question was whether it would be from fear or lack of oxygen.

"Do you realize how vulnerable you really are right now, Officer Lake? I can do… whatever I want to do to you… and there is there nothing you can do to stop me. What, pray tell, are you going to do Lake? What's your brilliant plan of action? I do believe I've gained the proper clearance to be privy to such information," Sands said dangerously.

Lake struggled feebly to try and free himself from Sands' grasp, but he was no match for the older and more experienced officer, especially while he was barely able to breathe. He coughed weakly, once, and a strangled "I don't know," managed to pass his lips.

"Of course you don't know, and do you know why? Because every matter requires prior knowledge and you know nothing about me, therefore, how could you possibly come up with a plan?" Sands tilted his head up a bit, as if pondering a thought. "I do believe you owe me your deepest apologies, Officer Lake, and you better make them sound sincere," Sands continued, his voice sounding completely calm. It was, in effect, much more frightening than if he'd actually sounded angry.

"Sorry." Lake croaked.

"Te audire no possum." Sands shook Lake a little, to get his point across as Lake looked at him in confusion.

"I'm… sorry…"

"You miscalculated my abilities, didn't you Officer?"

"Yes… was wrong," Lake managed.

There was a long silence as Sands thought. He was standing as still as a stone statue while Lake continued to gasp for air.

"Do you think I should let you go and let bygones be bygones?" Sands said suddenly. Caught momentarily off guard by the quick change in attitude, Lake just stared at him wide-eyed for a long moment before starting to nod his head furiously in agreement.

Sands faced Mike with a smirk. "What about you? Think I should let the kid live to screw up another debrief?"

"Well, I think you've pretty well scared this kid shitless. I don't see the harm in it," Mike said, choosing his words carefully. He saw Sands' smirk widen into a grin when he'd confirmed that the kid was indeed 'scared shitless' and looking the part.

It was a look that Sands wished desperately he could see at this moment, but he supposed that feeling the kid squirm and hearing him gasp for breath would have to do.

Sands turned back towards Lake, smile still in place. "Hear that? Your partner thinks you should live," he said cheerfully, but it didn't last. Sands dropped the smile and all hint of playfulness was gone, his tone returning to that dangerously calm drawl as he stated flatly to Lake, "Too bad I don't."

"Sands! Don't!" Mike shouted, but Sands never was one to listen.

Sands' hand was tightly enclosed around Lake's throat. He pulled the gun away from Lake's precious jewels but it was of little comfort to Lake as he watched Sands' actions.

Sands still had the gun, and he still intended to use it. He pointed it at Lake's head briefly before making a quick decision. He focused intently on the sounds around him, aimed again and pulled the trigger.

The echo of the bullet leaving the gun bounced back off the soundproof walls of the debrief room, making it seem incredibly loud. It was immediately followed by Lake's gasp and the sound of glass shattering.

The room was flooded with darkness.

Sands had focused on the sound of the light above them, and had shot out the bulb with little problem, his head never turning towards the target, facing Lake the entire time.

The gun took its place back under Lake's chin and Lake could feel the heat of Sands' breath against his face. "How does it feel Lake? How does it feel to be completely surrounded by darkness? Unable to see the room around you? Unable to see your partner? Unable to see your attacker? Unable to see the gun pressed up against your jaw, a gun that could bring you permanent darkness at any moment…" Sands paused for a moment, savoring the control like it was a good piece of slow roasted pork, savoring the ultimate power he had over this man. The power over life and death, the ultimate control.

'In one second I could pull the trigger, and this man would be dead.'

"Tell me Lake. How does it feel?" Sands hissed.

Lake felt as if he was about to pass out, his breath coming short and quick. "Frightening," Lake finally admitted, his voice mirroring the feeling.

"Good, because your slip of the tongue just cost you your life, and I want pure fear to be the last thing you ever feel in this world."

Lake pleaded one last time.

Then he felt the cold metal move from under his jaw and press hard against the side of his head.

Mike looked on helplessly, barely able to see the two other officers in the dark, sure that if he moved, he'd be shot too.

'_Oh shit.'_

Lake looked at Sands with terror filled eyes.

Mike shouted one last time for Sands to let the kid go, but it was in vain.

They all heard the click of the gun in Sands' hand.

Bang.

And the room was quiet.

Sands finally let go of his stranglehold on Lake and the kid fell to the floor in a heap, the gun now at Sands' side as he stepped back, smirking, before deadpanning into the silent darkness, "You're dead."

---

Latin Translations

Te audire no possum._ - I can't hear you._

_---_

Terminology

**Chokepoint** - A narrow passage used to channel the opposing force.


	14. The Uncertainty Principle

**Chapter 14: The Uncertainty Principle**

The room was dark and quiet. No one dared to move or breathe.

Lake slowly opened his eyes again, although it did little good in the darkness.

'_I'm alive?_' 

Confusion filled his face; he'd heard the gun go off, felt the pierce of the bullet… hadn't he? Or had he? He let out a long, shaky breath as he attempted to get his bearings.

Suddenly, Sands started laughing.

Admittedly, Sands' laugh was an odd thing to hear, but it was at that moment that Lake realized what had happened. Sands had only yelled bang as he shoved the barrel hard into Lake's temple, and let his fear-ridden body drop to the floor.

Sands hadn't actually fired the gun.

He'd been playing with him the whole time.

But Lake had heard the click… "What?" he started to ask as he caught his breath, the room still frighteningly dark.

Still lying on the floor Lake saw the dark outline of a figure loom above him and answer back, "Don't flip your wig, kid. It was only the sound of yours truly clicking the safety back on."

Sands smirked before lifting the gun up and demonstrating, rather sarcastically, how to flip the safety on and off.

At the new revelation and developments Mike slumped into the nearest chair in relief. He realized that he was covered in sweat and took out a handkerchief, starting to pat his face dry. It had been too dark for him to see exactly what had happened, and he'd been more than a little caught up in the moment. Sands had given them a good scare, but thankfully nothing more.

Sands smiled_. 'Oh, how I've missed all this. The thrill, the control, the power - and the ability to strike pure terror into the hearts of those who try to fuck with me.'_

Sands knelt down next to Lake. He could hear him trying to catch his breath.

"Just remember this Lake. I **could **have killed you," Sands stated menacingly, tapping the gun against his thigh absentmindedly as he spoke. "And the only reason why you're not dead on this floor right now is because I **chose** not to kill you." He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. "I hope for your sake, dear Lake, that you never do or say anything again that will make me regret my choice here today." Sands leaned a little closer towards Lake, causing him to lean away. "What do you think Lake? Can ya walk to the tune of that beat?"

"Yeah," Lake answered softly, caught slightly off guard, as Sands stood up again. "But-" Lake started, then stopped abruptly.

"But?" Sands questioned. Lake sat there on the floor for a long moment, rubbing his sore neck before answering.

"But why didn't you? Kill me, that is," Lake asked, curious about the answer. He was quite sure that Sands was capable of murder.

"Hmm…" Sands considered the question as he walked back towards the desk; one hand reaching out in front of him slightly until it hit the edge. He was grateful that the room was probably dark enough that the other two Officers couldn't see his obvious weakness. Sitting on the edge of the desk, Sands' gaze seemed to fall on nothing as he fiddled with the gun in his hands, "You're afraid to live and scared to die." He let out a small laugh, "That's truly… unbelievable."

Sands heard some shuffling from the floor, and assumed that Lake was finally starting to get up. "It's not that," he heard Lake say, "But you seemed serious enough to do it."

"Oh, it would have been easy enough for me to do it kid, and I certainly wouldn't have found it difficult to pull the trigger after what you dared to say to me. However, I'm not so insane as to surely wreck **my** career and future at the Company by killing a kid who's hardly worth the effort," Sands said calmly, surprising both the other officers in the room, until he spoke again.

"At least not here at OOS where I'd be immediately arrested," Sands threw in, smirking.

Mike looked at the silhouette of Sands. '_He'd been in control the whole time.'_

"Hey, Mikey?" Sands questioned, while he unloaded the gun's clip. Sands wasn't quite sure where Mike was anymore; he'd lost track after focusing on Lake so intently.

"Yeah?" Mike asked, getting back up.

"Catch." Sands said, tossing the unloaded gun in Mike's direction.

Mike managed to catch it, despite the dark and the slightly off throw, and regarded Sands as he put the gun back in its holster. Sands was rolling the clip in his hand, not really facing either of them. Mike glanced at Lake and put a single finger to his lips, signaling for Lake to say nothing else.

'_Sands seems calm enough and I definitely don't want Lake blowing it now, at least not any more than he already has.'_

"Well Sands, I'd say this debrief has run its course. As always… it hasn't been dull."

Sands smiled at that, "You know I'm always good for a little excitement, Mikey."

"True. I suppose some things never change."

Sands stood up and tossed the clip on the desk. "It does seem that way, doesn't it," he said distractedly. '_And some things do change.'_

Lake started walking towards the door, then stopped at the sound of Sands voice. "Oh and Lake, I wouldn't mention what happened in here, if you catch my drift."

Lake looked at Sands, then at Mike who gave him a look that clearly said 'agree with him, and don't talk about it'.

"Yeah, I got it."

"Groovy. Besides, who's going to believe you? Mike owes me one, more than one actually, but who's counting? And thanks to you, this whole little incident isn't even on record." Lake looked at the recorder and realized Sands was right. The tape didn't include any part of the ordeal; he himself had turned it off before the whole thing started.

"Don't be too terribly disappointed, kid. You're walking out of here with your life firmly intact. Just take this as a _friendly_ lesson, and remember it well. Don't ever underestimate anyone, no matter what you **think** you know about them. In the Company it's something that's likely to get you killed… or worse. Take my word for it," Sands said, tapping one of the lenses of his sunglasses. "I know, and I would truly hate to see **any **fellow agent or officer have to learn it the hard way. Consider yourself lucky, kid, because I'm sure that if you'd been sent out in the field before today, you'd be dead before you could even send in your first HUMINT report." Sands quirked an eyebrow. "I just gave you free training in field psychology, I'm sure you can dig it."

Lake let the words sink in, and at least had the good sense to be humble and not say anything stupid. Deep down his mind knew Sands was right, damn him.

Sands frowned. '_Why the hell did I just tell that kid all that? Lake certainly doesn't deserve any helpful tips from me, and I'd have been perfectly happy if that idiot had gone out into the field and gotten himself terminated.'_

He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.

'_Seriously, I cannot watch, or rather listen, to any more Soap Net.'_

"Then I suppose I should thank you," Lake said, not sounding very thankful.

"Fuck off!" Sands snapped back, irritated and confused, though more at himself than at Lake.

Lake raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing. Mike chuckled as shades of the partner he remembered started to slip through Sands' seemingly somber mood.

"Mike, I believe I'm through here. Just remember, find the cell phone. It's got all the proof the Company needs that my superior superior's intentions were to burn me, and not with the Company's blessing."

Mike nodded in consent, then realized that Sands couldn't see the gesture and voiced his reassurance. "We'll relay the information immediately. The Company will be on it right away."

"Spiffy," Sands replied as he followed the sound of his ex-partner's footsteps out of the room, hoping to hell that the Company would manage to find his proof.

* * *

Terminology

For terminology look at the end of previous chapters.

Review Responses

Wow... all of you... thanks SO MUCH. I love you all. Really.

Again, thank you everyone for taking the time to reply and to all of you out there reading.

Scarlett


	15. Home Sweet Home?

**Chapter 15: Home Sweet Home?**

Today was his last day at OMS, Crystal had informed him after debrief a few days earlier, and the days and nights that followed had been long, boring… and totally uneventful. Sure, his body might have needed the rest, but the inactivity was somewhat less fruitful for his mind. No matter how he tried to distract himself, the same question kept popping into his mind, over and over again. He tried to push it away, but it always came back taunting him, asking him the same thing every day, every hour, every minute…

'What are you going to do when you are released?'

And try as he might, Sands simply did not have an answer.

No master plan.

No ingenious solution.

After several days of struggling with himself, racking his brain for an answer, Sands finally had to admit it to himself, if to no one else.

'I don't know what I'm going to do.'

"Shit," Sands whispered out loud.

'_What's wrong with me? I'll do what I've always done. I'm still an officer for the Company…'_

Sands swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up as he heard footsteps approaching his door.

'Or am I?'

The door opened and then closed again quickly.

"So I hear they're releasing you today."

Sands smirked at the familiar voice and nodded in affirmation. "You'd think those fuckmooks would know better than to set me loose on the unsuspecting public."

"Yeah, but they never seem to learn. They keep making the same mistake."

Sands made a quick up and down motion with his eyebrows mockingly. "Well you know what they say Cam, all wrong-doing is done in the sincerest belief that it is the best thing to do."

Cameron snorted. "Since when does the Company think about what's the best thing to do?"

"Oh, right. My bad," Sands laughed. "So, do you mind telling me exactly what you're doing here?"

"Perhaps I'm just here to see how you're doing."

Sands' head went back and he groaned.

'_I swear he's trying to kill me with kindness.' _

"Don't make me shoot you."

Cameron walked further into the room to stand by the bed Sands was still seated on. "Sands," he said, waiting for him to respond. After half a minute of silence Sands made a 'get on with it' gesture with his hands and raised his eyebrows impatiently. "You're still an asshole," Cameron concluded.

"What? Were you expecting someone else?" Sands asked in mock disbelief.

Cameron sighed and leaned against the nearest wall. "I've been informed that my new assignment is to act as your chauffeur for the day."

Sands smiled a little smugly and stood up, suddenly ready to go. "Well if that's the case just be sure to keep it clandestine. Now let's get a move on, I'm sure there's a pack of smokes somewhere with my name on 'em."

The door opened again, just as Sands was absentmindedly making sure his sunglasses were in place, and Crystal walked in.

Cameron saw what she was holding, and frowned slightly, but didn't say anything.

"Well I bet you're glad to be going home," she said with a smile, as she tried to think of a good way to break the coming news to him.

"Home sweet home," Sands muttered sarcastically, before adding, "I bet the staff is even gladder."

Cameron looked over and saw a small smile tugging at Crystal's lips before she answered. "I wouldn't doubt it. Before you go Sands, remember that you'll need to continue to come in once a week to see your psychologist and… for rehab." Sands' brow furrowed unhappily as she went on. "Well, you'll need some help… adjusting… to everything. OMS and the Company require that you take a DLS class with us," she said nervously. She quickly handed Sands one of the items she'd been carrying and gave Cameron the rest; a small bag and a box containing a few of Sands' things, including Cam's present from a while back.

'DLS Class? What the hell is that?' Sands thought, frowning, as he felt the object shoved into his hands. Crystal was making her way towards the door, even as she continued speaking. "Those are antibiotics and pain killers," she said, pointing to the bag in Cameron's hands. "Sands, you'll need to take two of each a day, for a week. You'll have a checkup here once you run out of pills and we'll decide if you still need them after that. You may need the pain killers for a little while longer." She stopped and turned around to face him while standing by the door. "You sure there's no family you'd like me to notify?" she asked again, for the third time that week, concerned about him being alone so soon, but not daring to voice that concern.

"For the last time, no, sugar-butt."

Crystal dropped her gaze to the ground for a moment. After a glance at his files a couple of days ago, she knew he was lying, but she didn't press the matter, feeling as if she was already walking on thin ice.

"About the cane…" She paused for a moment, seeing his growing fury as he held the object tightly, "don't be ashamed to use it, you know, if you need to." She walked out the door, leaving it at that.

After hearing her leave, Sands' ran his hand up and down the aluminum cane a couple of times, lost in thought, before he held it out in front of him then abruptly dropped it, hearing the aluminum hit the linoleum floor and bounce a couple of times before becoming still. He stepped over it and made his way to the door with every intention of never using such a crutch. He turned towards Cameron, who unbeknownst to him, was quietly picking up the cane to take with them. "You coming or what?" Sands asked, now in a thoroughly foul mood.

'Great, just what I needed. Someone to make Sands crazier than he already normally is, right before I have to drive him to his apartment. Just perfect.'

"Yeah, yeah," Cameron muttered as he tucked the cane under his arm and led the way out of OMS.

* * *

Cameron looked over at Sands in the passenger seat of his black Suburban as he followed the directions to Sands' apartment. Cameron was somewhat grateful that Sands was one of the many officers that lived close to the CIA offices. He'd hate to have to drive Sands for any long period of time; sure, he had done so the day he'd picked Sands up in Mexico, but Sands had been unconscious most of the way, and it had undoubtedly made the long drive much easier.

Sands hadn't said a word since he'd gotten his cigarettes fifteen minutes ago. Not one. He was obviously thinking about something as he sat there, facing forward, smoking a newly bought cigarette like it was his lifeline.

Sands' curiosity was killing him and his distrust of Cameron was starting to seep into his brain.

'_He hasn't told me the truth about that day in Mexico. How did he know where I was if he hadn't talked to Martin? Or is Martin lying about not talking to Cameron, just as he lied about not talking to me?' _

'No… that last idea doesn't make any sense. If Martin were to lie about two officer's actions it would become risky. The lies would be more likely to turn on him.'

'It's time for Cameron to tell me what the hell is going on here.'

"We're almost there," Cameron told him, as he turned into the apartment complex.

Sands cocked his head and took a long drag off his cigarette as his thoughts were interrupted. "There's no place like home."

After about a minute Cameron pulled into a parking spot fairly close to an entrance door and shut off the engine.

"Shall we head in?" Cameron asked, as he pulled the keys out of the ignition and turned towards Sands.

"No," Sands stated flatly.

"What?"

Sands turned to him suddenly, his face showing absolutely no emotion. "Who sent you?"

"What?" Cameron repeated again, totally caught off guard.

"Quo usque tandem abutere patentia nostra?"

"Huh?"

Sands' face continued to be an unreadable mask. "You need to expand your vocabulary Cam. You heard me the first time. Who sent you to bring me out that day in Mexico? Because I tell ya, I rather assumed that it was Martin. However, I've made a startling discovery as of late. Martin claims that he never spoke to me on the Day of the Dead  
- that's not surprising - but he also claims that he never sent you to exfiltrate me either, and that is very interesting indeed."

Sands took another puff of smoke and blew a large cloud into Cameron's face. Cameron didn't smoke, and Sands knew he hated the smell.

"So you see, Cam, the puzzle pieces that I have in my possession seem to belong to two completely different puzzles."

Cameron looked at Sands for a long moment and then sat back in his seat.

'_Of course Sands isn't going to just up and trust you. What did you expect?'_

"Are you saying you don't trust me?" Cameron asked.

Sands laughed and cocked an eyebrow, opened the car door and threw out his cigarette. "A question for a question. Do you trust me?"

Cameron returned the gesture. "I see your point."

Sands got out of the car and closed the door, leaning against it as he waited for Cameron to get out.

Cameron followed, a little curious as to why Sands wasn't pushing the question further, but left it at that while he grabbed all of Sands' stuff from the backseat and started towards the apartment building.

Sands followed the sound of the box as its contents shifted with each of Cameron's steps. He wasn't going to just let the question go, but he preferred to continue the conversation in more private and familiar surroundings.

'I'll have more of an edge in my apartment,' Sands thought, and then chuckled slightly to himself under his breath. Cameron looked at Sands in bewilderment, but said nothing. Sands looked to be in a weird mood and Cameron wasn't anxious to start anything. As a matter of fact, he was pretty anxious to get all this over and done with as quickly as possible.

Once they reached Sands' apartment, Cameron unlocked the door to let them both in. Sands carefully walked towards the couch, while Cameron closed and locked the door behind them, all the time watching Sands. "Where do you want this stuff?"

Sands sat himself down on the couch, picturing the apartment's layout in his mind. He pointed towards a door off to Cameron's right. Cameron followed the direction of Sands' finger; it was a little off the mark but he got the idea. "If you drop that crap off in the bedroom there, that would be dandy."

As Sands heard Cameron open the door and go inside, he quickly stuck his hand under the couch cushion and started groping around.

'I know I left it under here somewhere… ah! Here it is.'

Sands smiled a little mischievously, and brought up the object he'd been searching for. He heard Cameron start back towards the living room, and quickly hid his find under his left leg. His mischievous look was gone by the time Cameron came back into the room, and as Cameron asked him if he'd like anything before he left, he began to plan out what he was going to do.

"Yeah, you can fix me a tequila. Stuff's in the kitchen."

Cameron rolled his eyes at Sands' request. It had sounded more like an order.

"No problem," Cameron said, walking into the kitchen. As he started looking around in the cabinets he heard Sands call out from the living room "…and don't forget the lime."

* * *

Latin Translations

Quo usque tandem abutere patentia nostra? - _How long are you going to abuse my patience?_


	16. Expect The Unexpected

**Chapter 16: Expect The Unexpected**

Sands leaned back on the couch looking relaxed as he waited for his unsuspecting prey. Said prey currently fixing him a tequila… with lime… in his small kitchen, seemingly not used to any kind of job in the culinary area judging by the way he was banging and crashing around.

'It's like STOMP giving me my own private performance for Christ's sake,' Sands thought to himself as he hollered a sarcastic "Are you alright in there?" to Cam. Cam gave a muffled response in the affirmative as Sands waited, the object he had retrieved from under the couch cushion hidden beneath him.

'I'll be damned if I'm going to let Cam leave or stall the subject any further.'

'I'm getting the truth from him, once and for all.'

It was obvious to Sands that asking Cam nicely about how he'd found him that day in Mexico was getting him nowhere.

Well then, that was just peachy keen with him. After all, he'd never had any problems using force when necessary. Hell, he'd never had any problems using force even if it was totally unnecessary.

Sands heard Cam's usual no-nonsense footsteps as he reentered the living room, and the sound of ice tinkling against the side of a glass.

'Guess I'll be having it on the rocks.'

"You alright amigo? Sounded like you were having a little trouble in the kitchen there," Sands asked in his trademark sarcastic drawl.

Cam rolled his eyes but ignored the comment. "Here's your tequila."

Sands moved his head towards him stone-faced, but didn't make a move to reach for the glass.

Cam stood there for a moment, nonplussed, before adding, "with a lime."

Sands smiled, and reached for the glass. As Cam gave it to him, he couldn't help notice the slight look of malice that shifted across Sands' features.

"Well, I guess I'll be going now…" Cam told him, starting towards the door. Cam was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable as he watched Sands take a sip of his tequila, and then immediately set it on the small coffee table in front of him.

"Veni huc."

Cam halted his progress to the door, turning around and facing Sands again, with a frustrated sigh. He knew very well that Sands spoke Latin to him because he _knew_ Cam couldn't understand him. But he knew Sands also did it to other people, so it seemed to be some bizarre game that Sands liked to play.

"Sands, you know very well that I don't speak or understand Latin."

Sands smirked and made a somewhat sinister_ come here _motion with his finger. Cam never thought that such an innocent gesture could be so frightening, until now. _'Don't go over there,'_ Cam thought even as he reentered the room._ 'Bad idea… bad idea…'_

Cam sat down hesitantly next to Sands on the couch, staying as far away as possible. Cam's designated space between the two of them didn't last long however.

Three things happened in the span of a few seconds.

Sands closed the gap between the two of them, grasped the back of Cam's neck and pulled what appeared to be a syringe full of an unknown liquid out from god knows where.

Cam gulped slowly, damning himself for his own stupidity.

'Should have seen this coming…'

Sands held up the needle, his other hand holding Cam's neck in a painful grip.

"Now Cameron," Sands drawled, and the use of his full name was not lost on Cam. "I have tried asking you nicely, twice, but to no avail. Now, I'll ask you again and I'll ask you for the last time…" he continued as he brought the needle up to Cam's neck, "…how did you know that I needed to be exfiltrated that day in Mexico?"

Cam opened his mouth to answer, but Sands quickly interrupted him, "Think very carefully about what you say to me _Officer_…" Sands said as he edged a little closer to Cam, his voice now exuding that dangerous calm that meant only one thing; he was furious. "… because if you lie to me now I swear I'll fucking pump this shit into your veins and let you worry about what it is and how much time you've got left until it takes you. Capiche?"

Cam stayed completely still.

'_Sands thinks I've betrayed his trust… perhaps even thinks I may be part of some larger plot involving Officer Martin.'_

After all that had happened, Cam supposed he couldn't blame Sands for his reaction. After all, he hadn't answered Sands previously and it probably did seem suspicious to him. He should have known better.

'_I just need to stay calm, and explain.'_

Cam swallowed again, his heart beating a little faster than he would have liked. "Yeah."

"Any time Cameron, I'm all ears."

"Before I start… I just want to say that I didn't betray your trust in me, Sands."

Although Sands did his best to hide it, Cam saw the small frown that played over his face ever so briefly, replacing Sands' normally unreadable mask.

"Why the hell would you think that I ever trusted you?" Sands asked. Deep in the back of Sands' mind though, a voice rang out.

'_You should have known better than to ever trust Cam. You should know that you can't trust anyone.'_

Snapping himself out of his thoughts Sands snarled, "Get on with it or else…" He halted for a moment and smiled "…Me oporlet propter praeceptum te nocere."

"Well," Cameron started quickly, knowing Sands was in no mood for stalling. "Officer Martin may be lying about everything else, but he was telling the truth when he said he didn't send for me to-"

"I think it's rather obvious that I figured that out Cameron," Sands rudely interrupted, exasperated now. "I don't think you'd be in this rather precarious position otherwise. Now stop farting around."

"FBI Agent Ramirez told me that you were injured and needed to be exfiltrated. Not long before Ramirez retired, he and I had worked to bring down a drug kingpin, so he knew how to get a hold of me. Ramirez also knew that I had worked with you previously. On the Day of the Dead he must have seen you at some point, known that you were injured, and then called me to get you out. Didn't want to deal with you himself, said he was too old to deal with your shit."

Sands remained quiet for a moment, his grip on Cam loosening ever so slightly. "How did you know that I was going to be at the Flying Cow?" Sands demanded, still not wanting to let go of his suspicions.

"Ramirez told me. I don't know how he knew, I only know that he was aware of the fact that you were going to be there. He told me that if you weren't there then I should check a certain side street for your body." Cam paused for a moment as Sands slowly removed the needle from his neck, but kept his grip firm and the syringe ready just in case. Cam continued, "You were acting as his handler, weren't you?"

"I was."

"Did you mention your meeting at the Flying Cow to him or tell him that you'd be there sometime that day?"

Sands sat back slightly, relaxing his grip on Cam a bit as his mind mulled over Cam's explanation of the events. Truth be known, he couldn't remember whether he'd shared that information with Ramirez or not. Those last couple days in Mexico just weren't sharp in his mind, and he supposed that just too much shit had hit the fan for him to remember. Still, it irritated him no end that his memory on the subject was so vague.

'Damn it all. The explanation sounds plausible enough.'

Sands let go of Cam, still lost in his own thoughts. Cam, perhaps wisely, stayed silent and waited for Sands to make the first move.

'Hell, his explanation sounds more plausible than a man like Cam double-crossing anyone... even me.'

Sands came to a sudden realization right then and there. He'd known Cam since he'd started out in the Company, and despite his life-altering misjudgment about Ajedrez's motives and character, his instincts about a person were normally dead on. He just couldn't quite bring himself to believe that Cameron was capable of such deceit.

The fact of the matter was he actually did trust the man sitting next to him.

'But **should** I really trust Cameron?'

Sands took a long, deep breath. Distrust was a vile little creature that refused to leave Sands' twisted little world, and it was a hard habit to give up, especially now that he no longer had the ability to look into a man's eyes or read the expression on his face as he spoke. It made it all the harder for him to trust his own instincts. A voice could tell you a lot about whether what a person was saying was the truth or a lie, but usually the eyes were what gave a person away…

'Eyes are the window into the soul…'

'So what does that make you?'

Sands stood up abruptly, still not having said a word, and Cam was unnerved both by his silence and his sudden change of position.

But by far the most unnerving thing was watching Sands, Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands, bad-ass extraordinaire, pacing before him as he nervously ran a hand through his shoulder length black hair mumbling, seemingly to himself, in Latin.

'You can't trust anyone can you? You just had to jump to conclusions, didn't you?'

"Non est mea culpa."

'I don't know that I can trust him, I don't know that he's telling the truth. How do I know if a man is telling me the truth when I can't look into his fucking eyes?' Sands continued to think to himself angrily, not realizing he was mumbling things out loud.

"Veritatem dies aperit."

Cameron watched Sands worriedly. In all the years Cameron had known Sands, which was admittedly quite a few, he had **never** seen Sands do what he was doing right now.

Never.

Not even remotely.

And frankly seeing him act this way… well, it was scarier than Sands threatening his life.

Cameron was seriously considering the possibility that Sands might be having a mental breakdown right in front of him at this very moment… but was surprised when Sands suddenly stopped his odd behavior and rounded on him.

Sands stalked towards Cameron quickly, a look of anger on his face as he stood over Cam, who was still sitting on the couch.

Then Sands did something totally unexpected.

He reached up and roughly jerked off his sunglasses.

Cam finally saw the extent of what had been done to Sands. He had never seen Sands without his sunglasses or bandages, not since his return. Cam drew in a sharp breath, horrified at the sight of the two dark holes that stared back at him, where Sands' eyes should have been. "Oh my god…" Cameron said softly as he started to look away, his stomach turning flip-flops. But Sands grabbed hold of the front of Cam's shirt quickly, and pulled him back around, seeming to anticipate Cam's reaction.

Grabbing hold of Cameron's jaw, Sands aggressively turned his face so that it was facing his own, then leaned forward till they were only inches apart.

"Look at me," Sands ordered, giving him a slight shake. "Look me in what were once my eyes, and promise me…" Cameron forced himself to look, and noticed that Sands was having some difficulty continuing. "…promise me that what you've told me is the fucking truth."

Cameron finally figured it all out. Sands was desperate… desperate to trust someone. No matter how much of a bad ass he unarguably was, right now in his current state, he needed someone to trust. Cameron looked straight at Sands as he answered sincerely, "I promise you Sands, I've told you the truth… you can trust me."

Sands stood up straight again, taking a couple steps away from Cameron. Sands suddenly looked tired, and a little older than he had before.

"I swear Cam, if I find out at any time that you've lied to me…" he began, his tone full of warning as he gently put his sunglasses back on. His head was pounding, and he vaguely remembered that he should be taking his painkillers right now. "… I'll make sure you know how I feel before you die."

"Sands, I-"

"Just get the fuck out of here Cam."

Cameron stood up slowly and made his way to the front door. He turned around; giving Sands one last worried glance, "I'll… I'll call you later, alright?'

"Noli me vocare, ego te vocabo. Get out!" Sands demanded as he removed a cigarette from its pack and lit it.

Cameron sighed, and as he left, the door shutting firmly behind him, he sincerely hoped that Sands would be alright.

* * *

Latin Translations

Veni huc. - _Come here._

Me oporlet propter praeceptum te nocere. _- I'm going to have to hurt you on principle. _

Non est mea culpa. - It's not my fault

Veritatem dies aperit. - Time reveals the truth.

Noli me vocare, ego te vocabo - Don't call me, I'll call you.


	17. Throwaway

**Chapter 17: Throwaway**

Sands wearily entered his apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him. He'd just returned from his sixth DLSC. The acronym was mercifully better than the full title; _Disabled Living Skills Class._

It was degrading to him, to need such a class. Yet he saw no way out of it. He had to take the classes if he was to have any hope of staying on at the Company and what was worse, he found that the classes did help him to live better on his own. He was finishing his second week, and already he'd learned some useful skills.

Still, it didn't help Sands' mood any. He craved revenge. Not revenge against the cartel, that had already been done, but revenge against the traitor within his own agency. The agency that had been his miserable life for over 10 years. Yet here he was, going to these classes because… because why?

'Because you feel useless and weak and bored.'

He disgusted himself.

Sands threw his coat and cane down in a corner of the entryway and made his way into the kitchen, feeling an intense need to shoot something.

'I need a drink. A strong drink.'

Opening the cabinet that contained the tequila, Sands poured himself a rather large measure of the liquor, then opened the fridge and fished in the fruit drawer for a lime. Unfortunately the fruit drawer was empty and Sands found himself and his friend El Tequila lime-less.

'Fuck it.'

Sands downed the drink quickly and set the glass down heavily on the counter, refusing himself another shot of the drink. He walked into the living room running a hand through his hair, but he felt too antsy to sit down.

'Damn it all, stop thinking like that! You know this is only temporary. You're just as sharp as you always were and by the end of all this shit you'll be just as deadly and just as efficient as before.'

Sands desperately needed to do something, to stop thinking.

'I'm driving myself out of my fucking mind with all this thinking.'

Suddenly he got an idea, and he smiled at the thought.

Reaching into his pocket he got out his cell phone. It wasn't his old companion - that still seemed to be MIA - but he supposed it would have to do.

Cam had only visited once since their little encounter two weeks ago. During the visit Cam had entered his number into Sands' cell, setting it as speed dial three, much to Sands' dismay.

After dialing Cam's number on speed dial he waited as the phone rang. Cam picked it up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Quid agis, medice?"

"Huh? Wh… Sands?" Cam asked, sounding caught off guard and a little shocked that Sands had called.

"The one. The only."

"Is everything alright?"

"Groovy. Except I seem to be developing a possibly fatal case of itchy trigger finger and seriously need to shoot some lead into some shit. So, I thought before I go next door and shoot one of my neighbors, I'd give you a jingle and see if you were up for it."

"Are you offering to shoot me instead?"

"Hmm, tempting, tempting," Sands said as if contemplating the idea, amused, but showing little sign of it in his voice. "Are you offering?"

Cam was silent, obviously trying to think of something to say. Sands snorted and continued. "I didn't think so… well since my human target doesn't seem to be willing, what do you say we go down to the range? You can paste a picture of Officer Lake's head on my target. It'll be better than a visit to the shrink."

Cam laughed, and was relieved to hear Sands sounding more like himself… even if it was just because he was happy about the prospect of shooting something, it was refreshing to hear.

It was Sands.

The nurse at the hospital, Crystal had been keeping a sharp eye on Sands when he came in for his physical therapy and check-ups and had told Cam that Sands had seemed even more detached than normal (which was saying something) and that it could be a sign that he was depressed. The news certainly wasn't surprising considering Sands' situation.

Actually, what was more surprising to Cam was that Sands hadn't completely lost his mind. He certainly hadn't had a firm base as it was, and a lesser man would have given in by now. Briefly Cam wondered what he'd be like if the same happened to him… he didn't think about it too long.

"Sounds like a plan. I've just finished up some paperwork… I can probably make it over there in about forty-five. Sound good?" Cam asked him, thinking that perhaps Sands was finally starting to warm up to another human being.

"Peachy," was the quick reply, as Sands hung up the phone and smiled at the thought of feeling the power of an automatic in his hand again. It had been far too long.

The thought that perhaps he was beginning to develop a less-than-hostile relationship with another officer never even crossed Sands' mind.

---

Sands had just finished changing when his phone rang; not his cell, but his home phone. He stiffened slightly, as very few people ever called him, especially on his home phone.

'It's probably someone from the Company.'

"Ah shit." Sands swore under his breath as he walked over to the phone, damning the fact that he could no longer read his caller ID.

"Yeah?" he answered in a bored tone, as if he was already tired of a conversation that hadn't even started yet.

"Officer Sands?" The voice on the other end asked, all business.

"The one and only," Sands stated before thinking, '_deja vu.'_

"This is Officer Douglas…"

'Oh fuck… this can't be good.'

"I'm calling to inform you about the progress of the investigation."

"Oh well, glad to hear you all stopped farting around. There may be hope for OOS yet," Sands commented sarcastically. "So, have you found out who cluster-fucked the operation?"

"Perhaps… Officer Sands. I regret to inform you that you've been suspended indefinitely, pending an investigation into your actions during your operation in Culiacan, Mexico."

Sands whole body froze, his breathing stopped, his grip on the phone becoming so tight his knuckles turned white, as he forced himself to answer and maintain his ever-bored drawl.

"Just for my own edification, why the sudden shift in suspicion? Last I talked to you, you seemed to agree that Martin was the rat."

"We found your phone Officer Sands," Douglas answered, then paused, waiting for a reaction from Sands.

'If they found the phone, then shouldn't they be delivering this call to Martin?' Sands thought, suddenly confused.

Douglas continued in the face of Sands' silence. "There are no recorded phone calls to your superior, Officer Martin, in your cell phone, nor is his number in your recent calls archive. There is no record of you ever calling your superior, Sands."

Sands opened his mouth to speak, but didn't know what to say and no sound came out.

'What the fuck? No record of my calls to Martin… it wasn't possible.'

'I made those calls.'

'I recorded those calls.'

"You are free to continue your DLSC and physical therapy at OMS while we investigate further. However, you are suspended from any type of active duty and you will be arrested if you attempt to leave the state. For the time being, consider yourself a civilian. We will notify you further at a later date."

With that Douglas hung up, not even waiting for a reply and Sands just stood motionless as the dial tone buzzed in his ear and into his brain like a swarm of hornets. His temples pounded as his phantom eyes began throb with pain. Over and over his mind raced in circles.

'_I made those calls. I made those calls. I did make those calls…' _

'…didn't I?'

"Officer Martin also said that he'd never spoken to you that day either."

'Well, that's truly unbelievable.'

"Did you mention your meeting at the Flying Cow to him or tell him that you'd be there at some time that day?"

'I can't remember.'

Sands' breathing became quicker as his sense of reality began to crumble. Still he held the phone to his ear, the sound of the dial tone the only reminder that he was standing in his apartment at this moment… alive and in the US… just stripped of his title by a one-minute phone call from a weasel of a man who'd sat in a cozy office all his life and didn't give a shit. A sorry-you-wasted-eleven-years-of-your-life-with-the-Company-and-got-your-eyes-ripped-out-but-tough-shit-and-guess-what-we-don't-give-a-damn courtesy call that took away the last thing he had left in his miserable existence.

'I made those calls.'

"There's no record of any calls to Martin."

'I made those calls.'

"That's one of the many problems we're finding Officer Sands"

'I know I fucking made those calls.'

Sands began to feel dizzy, the pain in his temples and the thoughts in his mind affecting his equilibrium in ways he didn't know were possible. His thoughts became fogged over, confused, as his breathing quickened and his head spun out of control. Suddenly he didn't know which way was up or down, left or right, front or back. His eyes burned, mere phantoms to torture him.

Then there was more fog, and the ground seemed to tilt.

'Open your eyes so you can see where the floor is.'

And as ridiculous as the thought was, Sands tried to open his eyes.

'I can't. I can't open my eyes. What's happened?'

'I can't remember.'

He let out a strangled sound as an arm snapped out in reflex, groping for anything within reach. Yet his fingertips hit nothing but air, and Sands staggered hard to the right, finally dropping the phone from his iron grasp. It fell to the floor as the dial-tone turned to a beep.

The sockets of what were once his eyes pounded mercilessly and the pain echoed in his skull.

'Why do my eyes hurt so fucking much?! Why can't I open my goddamn eyes?'

Sands staggered again, reaching out with the other arm for something to hold on to. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Just black surrounded by deeper black.

'You didn't see it coming… did you?'

Sands right hand reached down to his side for his gun at the sound of _that_ voice, but again, there was nothing there. The movement was enough to cause him to lose his balance and he felt his still recovering left leg give way, then the right.

"I am Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency" Sands muttered, trying to keep a grip on his slipping hold on reality. As his knees hit the carpet that same black was eaten away by the deeper black and he quickly slipped out of consciousness as his body hit the ground.

* * *

Latin Translations

Quid agis, medice? - What's up, Doc?

Terminology

**Throwaway** - An officer/agent considered expendable.


	18. Loyalty

**Chapter 18: Loyalty**

Cameron walked up the second flight of stairs and made his way down the hall to Sands' apartment. Reaching the door he knocked hard three times and waited… and waited… and waited. Cameron frowned slightly before knocking again and calling out, "Sands, open up. It's me, Cam."

Still, there was no response. Cam felt a knot begin to form in his stomach as he got a duplicate of Sands' apartment key - given to him the day Sands was released from OMS - out of his pocket. Wary of entering without Sands opening the door himself, Cam knocked again and tried the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked.

Cam sighed and fidgeted with the key in his hand, staring at the doorknob and listening to the echoing silence inside with dismay. A woman walked past him, giving him a suspicious glance before heading down the stairs.

Cam knocked on the door one last time. "Sands, if this is your idea of a joke it isn't very funny."

Still there was nothing.

Worriedly Cam glanced up and down the hall before withdrawing his gun, then inserting the key into the door. Turning it, he opened the door and cautiously stepped inside.

Cam's eyes widened at the sight that greeted him. Closing the door, he hurried over to Sands' prone body, lying unconscious on the living room floor.

"Jesus! Sands!" Cam called out as he knelt down beside him, efficiently checking him over for any wounds, thinking that perhaps someone had broken in.

'I don't see anything,' Cam thought, somewhat confused, as he shook Sands a bit in an attempt to rouse him. However, Sands still didn't move, and the lack of any external harm did little to ease Cam's worries. As he sat back slightly, he returned his gun to its holster, at a loss as to what exactly he should do. It occurred to him that the phone was beeping and he looked over to see it off the hook, lying on the floor next to Sands.

'Water. Maybe some water on his face will wake him up,' Cam thought as he stood, picking up the phone and replacing it in its cradle. It was then that Sands abruptly sat up with a sudden gasp, and Cam nearly knocked the whole table over in his surprise.

"Sands?" Cam asked tentatively, but got no real response as Sands' breathing speeded up. He appeared to be on the verge of panic. "Sands, what's the matter? What's wrong?" Cam questioned, but still didn't seem to be getting through to the man sitting before him. Sands' right hand began to reach out blindly in the air in front of him as his breathing became ever more labored. His sunglasses had been knocked askew to reveal some of the nothingness that lay beneath, and strands of his long hair clung to the sweat on his face.

Cam bit his lower lip nervously as he thought, _'He's a total wreck.'_

"Sands?"

Cam moved toward Sands slowly, not wanting to startle him, but still seeking to help him. It was painfully obvious something was very wrong. "Sands," he said softly, as if talking to a child.

Finally Sands' head moved towards the sound of Cam's voice and he took a small amount of comfort in the acknowledgment. Sands swallowed hard, his breathing still far too quick to be normal. "Cam?" Sands asked quietly, his upper body swaying a bit as if he were dizzy.

"Sands, what's wrong?" Cam asked again as he knelt down, unafraid of startling Sands now that he held his attention. He grasped Sands' outstretched hand and immediately noticed how clammy his skin was to the touch, his palms sweaty. "I… I… Cam, something's wrong. I…" Sands began to stutter, in a small voice that Cam had never heard from him before.

"Sands it's OK, just…"

"No… no, it's not. Eric… I… I can't see!" Sands whispered to him desperately, as an involuntary shudder passed through his body.

Cam furrowed his brow in confusion, surprise… and worry. He couldn't remember the last time Sands had called him Eric.

"Sands…"

"I can't see!" Sands said again, more loudly this time, his voice cracking. Sands reached a hand up to his face as he attempted to stand up, succeeding only with Cam's help, and swaying dangerously in place. "My eyes… my eyes hurt so much. Eric, why the fuck do they hurt so much?" Sands asked, becoming frantic. It was painfully clear to Cam that Sands was having some sort of panic attack or mental collapse.

'Perhaps it's all finally hit him. Perhaps it has all finally started to sink in.'

'But he sounded so normal less than an hour ago. What happened in between then and now?'

"Sands… you're alright. Just try and take a few slow, deep breaths," Cam said soothingly, as he tried to guide Sands over to the couch, but Sands pulled back at his lead, roughly and suddenly, the quick movement almost causing him to tumble back down to the ground. Sands was still breathing oddly, and he was sickly and pale and not at all Sands.

"Don't you touch me!" Sands warned in a dangerous tone laced with unfamiliar desperation. "Don't you dare touch me!" Sands said again. This time his voice was a mere whisper.

"What… what have you done to me? I can't see… I can't see anything."

Cam swallowed, his throat dry, as a feeling of dread swept over him. Sands was definitely having some sort of mental breakdown. Unfortunately, out of the two of them, Sands was the only one with a degree in psychology.

"Sands, I haven't done anything to you. Don't you remember?"

"Yes… yes you did," Sands accused. He began to feel his way around the apartment as if searching for something, stumbling several times before finding a wall to help guide him.

A thought struck Cam as he watched Sands in concern, '_He's never looked as blind as he does right now.'_

Sands made it to the door of his bedroom and Cam followed him, still completely unsure of what to do. He didn't want to make any drastic phone calls, still holding out hope that Sands would snap out of whatever panicked state seemed to have gripped him.

As Cam entered the doorway of Sands' bedroom he watched as Sands felt around the bed, and then his dresser. Sands began to pull out the lowest drawer and it quickly dawned on Cam what he might be searching for.

Leaping into action Cam came to an abrupt halt as Sands swiftly stood up and spun around to face him, automatic in hand.

"What are you doing, Sands?" Cam asked, as he cursed himself for his stupidity. He took a step back from the imposing figure of a crazed Sands; hair a tangle of black, sunglasses askew, sweat glistening on his brow, his breathing rapid and ragged. He raised the automatic and aimed it at Cam, his hand uncharacteristically shaky.

"Just stay away from me motherfucker. I…" Sands seemed to stop for a moment, as if battling with himself. "I'll blow you straight to fucking Broadway."

"Alright, alright," Cam said, trying to sound calm as he backed up a little more. "Listen to me Sands. You're in your apartment. About a month and a half ago you returned to the US after your operation rolled up in Culiacan, Mexico. Don't you remember? You were injured," Cam said, then took a silent step to his left, removing himself from Sands' line of fire.

"I can't remember. I…I can't… I can't see…" Sands trailed off feebly. He looked frustrated and confused, his gun still trained on the spot Cam had just vacated.

"Sands… The Barillo Cartel…"

Sands jumped in surprise at the sound of Cam's voice, and took an unsteady step away from him, caught off guard by his stealthy change of location. The hand clutching the gun faltered, and he didn't attempt to correct his aim as he continued to try and grasp what Cam was telling him.

"…the Day of the Dead. Armando Barillo… Ajedrez…" Cam continued to prod.

Suddenly, Sands turned the gun on himself.

Cam's eyes widened in surprise at the one thing he never expected. "Please, Sands! Just… just put the gun down."

Sands began to laugh, a twisted and crazy sound that chilled Cam to his core. "I won't tell you what you want to know. I won't tell you anything! The Company will not stand for this! I'll willingly take myself to hell before compromising my operation," Sands went on. His laugh became a choked sob while the gun remained pressed against his temple.

"There's no operation Sands! There's nothing to compromise!"

Sands shook his head. "I called him. I… I did call him. I spoke to him. He spoke to me. I recorded it. God damn it! I recorded it!" He shouted, struggling to catch his breath. When he spoke again, his voice came out haggard. "I'm a loyal officer to the Company."

"Of course you are Sands."

Cam watched him with something beyond fear in his eyes. There was no doubt about it, Sands had completely lost it.

'I can't stand here and watch him shoot himself.'

Sands backed himself up against the dresser, then slowly slid down to the ground with the gun still at his temple. "I'm a loyal Officer," Sands stated, sounding weak and tired as he sank down. "I made those calls … and I'm a loyal officer."

Cam could wait no longer. He dove towards Sands in a desperate attempt to pull the gun off its target before Sands could pull the trigger.


	19. Neutiquam erro

**Chapter 19: Neutiquam erro (I am not lost)**

Cam dove for the gun and his hands grasped it. Sands let out a yelp of surprise as he felt the gun being pulled away from him.

'You really didn't see it coming, did you?'

"Goddamn it. Let go of the gun, Sands!"

Sands let out what could only be called a growl as he tried to regain his grip on the only thing he felt he could control.

"You fucker! I… I see… no… no. I mean… I know… I know how it is. You don't want me controlling the balance. But it's what I do. I control the balance. I control… the balance." 

When his position finally allowed him to, Cam grabbed hold of Sands' wrist and twisted hard, and Sands gasped as he was forced to drop the gun to the ground. But Sands was never one to admit defeat, even now when the mighty mistress had her deathly fingers around his neck. He immediately acted. Just as Cam tried to kick the gun away from Sands, Sands shoved Cam hard against the dresser and turned his attention back to the floor, his hands groping around in the place he'd heard the gun drop as he muttered urgently.

"Restore the balance. Set them up and watch them fall. Just watch them fall. Watch them fall."

Cam shook his head, trying to clear it, as blackness threatened to close in on his vision. It was by sheer will - and terror at the sight of Sands fingers brushing against the gun lying on the floor - that he managed to fight off the encroaching darkness and lurch forward to stop him.

When Sands' fingertips brushed up against the gun, he grasped it quickly. "Watch the mighty fall," Sands whispered, as he started to raise the gun to his temple again.

But Cam had the element of surprise on his side and grabbed hold of Sands' arm before he could take accurate aim, slamming the gun and Sands' hand against the dresser just as a shot went off. Sands shouted madly, but as soon as the shot rang out his body went rigid. His hand released its hold on the gun and it dropped to the floor.

Not willing to take any more chances, Cam immediately scooped the gun up and unloaded the clip. Watching Sands out of the corner of his eye as he lay against the dresser, pale and breathing heavily, he tossed the unloaded gun onto Sands' bed and tucked the clip inside his jacket.

"Sands?" Cam asked. He crouched next to him and, after some hesitation, laid a hand on Sands' shoulder. Sands' body and mind appeared to be totally spent, as if they both just came to the agonizing conclusion that there was no way to win the battle. "Jeff?" Getting no real response Cam grabbed hold of Sands' shoulders and gave him several hard shakes, raising his voice a few levels higher than normal. "Listen to me you crazy son-of-a bitch!"

Sands eyebrows drew together as he finally turned his head to face Cam. Cam heaved a weary sigh as he allowed his body to collapse next to Sands on the floor. Attempting to keep the tiredness and worry from lacing his voice, Cam continued. "Jeff, you're in your apartment with your ex-partner in crime, Eric Cameron. Cam." Cam paused for a second, making sure Sands was comprehending him, before asking, "Are you following me, cowboy?"

Sands took a deep and shaky breath; not really sure of what had just happened, but attempting to focus on what was going on now. He felt dizzy and weak, and he couldn't seem to get his own body to stop shaking.

Finally, Sands nodded a slow response in the affirmative

It was slowly seeping into Sands' mind now, what had happened in Mexico, and what had happened… what was it? A minute ago? Thirty minutes ago? An hour ago? A day ago? It had been almost two months, yet the thought struck him hard, suddenly, without warning.

'I'm never going to see again.'

'I'm never… going to see… again.'

A small and unwelcome flow of air escaped Sands' lips, as his lungs emptied out their supply in defeat.

'You set them up and watch them fall. So perhaps it's bitter irony that you didn't get the pleasure of watching your own fall.'

A minute passed in which they sat in complete silence, Cam letting Sands get his wind back and sort things out in his mind. Cam leaned heavily against the dresser behind him, deciding to be patient and let Sands make the next move.

Slowly, the fog within Sands mind cleared. It took with it the feeling of confusion, but didn't pay him the courtesy of also removing the feeling of depression he was experiencing.

'You're not going to let **them** win are you?'

'Let who win?'

'Douglas, Martin, Ajedrez, the Cartel. You can't let them win.'

'That's right. That's right. I can't let them win. I'm Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the…'

'All of them. They're all the same. Some dead, some still alive. You can change that.'

'Restore the balance.'

'It always comes down to that, doesn't it?'

After another minute rolled by Sands pulled himself away from his internal conversation, remembering Cam was likely still in the room.

'Cam was here… wasn't he?'

"Are you still with me cowboy?"

Finally Sands broke the rigid silence.

"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker."

Cam let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and laughed in relief. "Alright John McClane, I think you've had enough action for one day. Why don't we make our way into the living room? I'll fix you a stiff drink. You look like you need it."

Sands let out a frustrated groan and leaned his head against the dresser.

'What the hell is wrong with me? Letting myself get pushed over the edge by that asshole, Douglas. That should not have happened… and now… now, I've got Cam here treating me like some fucking child.'

'Weak. Weak. Weak.'

"Fuck off Cam. Just leave me alone," Sands snapped back, irritably. He didn't know what was going on with himself, and he'd be damned if he let Cam figure it out before he did.

Cam rolled his eyes as Sands seemed to go back to his normal self, his annoyance tempered with great relief.

"There's no way in hell I'm leaving you here alone in this condition."

"I don't need your help!" Sands growled, as he slapped Cam's hand away and tried to stand on his own, failing miserably.

"Of course you don't, asshole. You're perfectly capable of handling yourself. But I'm already here and I really have nothing else better to do, so you're getting my help anyway, like it or not."

A long silent moment passed between them before Sands emitted a short grunt.

"Friggin' pain-in-the-ass," he grumbled as Cam grabbed hold of his arm and helped him up roughly.

"Oh yeah, and you're not?"

Sands allowed himself a small smug smile as he regained his balance. "That's right, I'm not."

Cam gave him an incredulous look, before Sands continued. "I'm a **royal **pain-in-the-ass."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

Cam led Sands to the couch and sat, or rather pushed, Sands down on it.

"Sands, your skin is clammy. I think you have a fever. Please, just sit there for a minute and try to take some slow, deep breaths. It will help clear your mind."

Cam could swear that even without eyes, Sands had managed to fix him with his nastiest glare. Sands opened his mouth to say something no doubt equally nasty but Cam cut him off.

"Don't even start your shit."

Sands snapped his mouth shut and ground his teeth. Time seemed to stand still for a moment as Cam watched Sands sit there in complete silence as he obviously tried to withhold an outburst. Cam noticed that Sands wasn't breathing quite as quickly as he had been before and his body was shaking a little less. However, he still seemed exhausted, and when Sands was too exhausted for a good comeback… well, then something was seriously wrong.

After a moment, when it appeared Sands was starting to get a grip on things again, Cam walked into the kitchen and poured them both a good measure of tequila. Since Sands seemed to be out of limes he brought the drinks out as is and approached Sands, who was bending over with his hands covering his face.

"Sands, drink this. It'll help to relax you," Cam said as he sat next to him.

Sands lifted his head, readjusted his crooked sunglasses, sat back against the couch heavily and reached for the drink. Cam put it in his hand and watched as Sands took a long pull from the glass, ending it in a weary sigh. "Where's a lime when you really need one?" Sands mumbled into his glass, and Cam allowed himself a slight smirk. Sands seemed to finally be getting back with it, at least to the point of coherence.

'Damn, he scared the shit out of me.'

As Sands finished his tequila, Cam finally asked, "Sands, what happened?"

"Shit," Sands swore, setting his now empty glass down in front of him on the coffee table. Cam waited for him to continue, but Sands didn't elaborate any further.

"Care to expand on that thought? You sounded fine when I talked to you earlier. What the hell happened?"

Sands leaned back against the couch, shifted his weight and reached a hand into his pocket, coming up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Sands lit one up and took a drag before answering in his most nonchalant tone, "Nothing."

"Don't give me that bullshit Jeff. You don't make a habit of losing control… of anything, least of all yourself."

He knew that being too kind to Sands would result in a bullet in the head or at least a shove out the door, actually probably both. "I know you too well."

"I agree on that last statement."

"Don't start your shit with me. You can't give me the brush off. You think I can't tell what you're trying to do?"

"Oh, and what's that?" Sands asked nastily, his patience spent, as he took another puff of his cigarette and filtered the smoke slowly out through his nose.

"You're trying to lock me out, push me away. You've always had a problem with people - oh you can manipulate them wonderfully - but you've always had a hard time connecting."

"Wowza, listen to all that crap you can spout Doctor Phil," Sands spat sarcastically as he started to get up, not wanting to hear anymore.

Cam quickly stopped him from getting up, and pushed him back into a seated position, determined to make Sands hear him out.

"You've always been like that to a certain extent, but I can't for the life of me understand why you've completely given up on people. You've only gotten worse. Why? Is it because of what happened to…"

Sands interrupted him, furious, "Mention them and I'll kill you, I swear I'll…"

"No you won't Jeff."

"You do realize how irritating you are, don't you? My trigger finger is just itching to shoot something, so don't tempt me."

"If you were going to shoot me you would have done it by now. Besides, you know I'm right."

Sands smiled mercilessly. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"But I am."

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you, Jeff. Either you tell me what's going on or I'm picking up that phone and calling OMS and telling them to come get you," Cam threatened. He knew it was an empty threat because, as tough as he was being with Sands now, he knew he couldn't be responsible for Sands being committed to a sanitarium.

"Would you do that?" Sands asked, in a tone that betrayed nothing of what he felt.

"I just watched you have some sort of mental episode and go so far as try and kill yourself. You want to try me?"

Sands sat there for a long time, saying absolutely nothing as he smoked; his breathing seemed to be back to normal and his skin was a little less pale. Cam didn't know what to think, but stayed silent, knowing he could really only push the man so far, and that he was already stretching his limits.

"Well, I suppose I'll never get any peace until I tell you."

Cam waited for Sands to continue.

"Congratulations Cam! I didn't know you had it in you," Sands sighed and stubbed out the last of his cigarette on the table.

"Director Douglas was kind enough to inform me that I am nothing but a throwaway to the Company."

Cam closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly.

'_That explains a lot.'_

"What did he say?"

Sands thought back. The whole situation was beyond frustrating and he felt the urge for another cigarette; he didn't deny the impulse and promptly lit another. So many things were pulling him apart. He used to have control of his life, yet now it seemed that he had lost that power.

_'That was before.' _

Sands cleared his throat, "Just to give you the overall gist of the delightful convo I experienced earlier... Douglas informed me that I'm a person of interest. I'm to consider myself a civilian until they delve further into the operation in Culiacan. Oh, and I'm not allowed to stray too far from home, either."

Cam thought for a moment. "So… you've been suspended?"

"Congratulations, you win a plush toy."

"But you haven't been terminated from employment yet, there's a possibility they'll find your phone and prove that-"

"Doubtful Eric," Sands interrupted, not realizing that he was starting to call Cam by his first name. Sands' head still throbbed painfully, the result of having been taken off the major painkillers. He also suspected that he might have smacked his head at some point because one side of his face hurt like hell, and his sunglasses were biting into his skin.

"They found my cell."

"Then… shouldn't you be in the clear?" Cam asked, confused.

Sands laughed softly, but there was no humor in the sound. "Well that's what I thought too. However, according to Douglas there is no record of my having ever called Martin."

Cam raised his eyebrows in surprise. "But you did call him?"

'Did you call him?'

'Of course you did. You remember the conversations.'

'Maybe I'm losing my mind. Maybe I lost it a long time ago.'

'Only if you keep doubting your own sanity.'

'Then what could have happened?'

'What do you think fuckmook? Someone's trying to get rid of you.'

Sands nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, I called him," He said aloud, and it served to convince himself as well as Cam.

'I've been totally irrational about this whole situation.'

He'd made those calls, yes, of course he had. And damn it, if the CIA couldn't or wouldn't find proof that he'd been burned by Officer Martin, well then he'd have to find it himself.

Without much warning, Sands felt a trickle of wetness slide down his cheek, coming from the side he'd hit. "Ah shit," Sands said under his breath, and turning farther away from Cam, removed his sunglasses.

"What's the matter Sands?" Cam asked, worried.

Sands brushed his fingers across his cheek and felt the all too familiar wet, sticky substance… blood.

'_Well that explains why I've got pain shooting through my skull.'_

Sands replaced his sunglasses, stubbed out his second cigarette, and stood up, using the couch as support. As Sands started towards the bathroom he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder that quickly spun him around.

"What are… oh, Jesus, Sands." Cam said as soon as he got a full view of Sands' face, seeing the flow of blood running down his cheek. Before Sands even registered it, Cam had removed his sunglasses.

Sands reached out to snatch them back on reflex, but then, realizing what it must look like, stopped almost as quickly. He held out his right hand and demanded dangerously, "Give them back to me."

Cam, realizing what he'd done, immediately handed them back.

"Don't you **ever** do that again." Turning around abruptly, Sands stalked to the bathroom without another word and closed the door.

As Cam heard the faucet run in the bathroom he returned to the couch and sat down, rubbing his face repeatedly in an effort to wake himself up. This day had turned out way more stressful and exhausting than he had ever imagined.

"You know," Cam called out to Sands from the living room, "When you called about getting a little target practice in this afternoon this was not what I had in mind."

After a couple moments of Cam's attempts to lighten the mood, he heard Sands shout back, "Yeah, well next time I shoot my bolt I'll be sure to let you know I plan on wigging out beforehand."

After a few more minutes Sands came out of the bathroom, his face washed, his hair brushed and his sunglasses back in place. He looked much better, his color slowly returning along with his strength.

Sands' returning strength echoed in his voice as he spoke to Cam in his distinct 'I'm going to start some shit' tone.

"Cam, there's a mole in Mexico and the rat wants to off me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him win."

* * *

-Scarlett

_"You know that withholding information from a Officer is a Federal Offense... especially when that Officer has paid handsomely for it and wouldn't think twice about ripping that patch off your eye-hole and skull-fucking you to death." Sands, OUATIM_

_"I've been eating potato chips this way for 30 years... 30 years." Mort, Secret Window_


	20. Savoir faire

**Chapter 20: Savoir-faire**

Cam watched Sands walk into the kitchen and grab a bag of chips off the counter. It amazed him how one minute Sands could be on the verge of suicide, and the next minute he could be talking to him as if none of it had ever happened. Cam knew that there was no way that Sands could be completely over it all so quickly, but Sands was a master at, among other things, hiding his humanity.

"You still think Martin is the traitor?" Cam asked Sands as he returned from the kitchen, chips in hand.

Sands shook his head. "He's involved somehow. Now it's just a matter of finding out exactly how deeply his rabbit hole goes, and who else is helping him dig it."

"You don't think it's just him?"

"Not a snowball's chance in hell. He doesn't have the balls… and I don't mean the snow kind. He's either working with someone or for someone. It all comes down to who."

Cam thought silently for a moment. He tended to agree with Sands. Martin was not a good field officer, which was the reason he sat behind a desk and ran things. However, he wasn't even terribly good at doing that. For quite some time there'd been rumors to the effect that Martin was going to be replaced by another officer; there still were. As a matter of fact, now that Cam thought about it, Sands' name had even been one of those mentioned as a possible replacement… at least, before the coup.

"Sands, were you aware of the rumor floating around the Company that Martin was going to be replaced as supervisor?"

Sands eyebrows lifted, and his expression became one of mild curiosity. "Really?"

"You hadn't heard?"

"No." Sands said, putting on his bored façade. "I was a little too busy in Culiacan to stop and get all the latest scuttlebutt from you ladies. Besides, that's probably just what it is. He hasn't been replaced."

"Perhaps not. But it's an awfully big coincidence that your name was tossed around as being one of those up for promotion, to replace Martin."

Sands snapped his head around to face Cam, caught off guard by his words.

"What?"

"I'm saying that there were those within the Company who believed you were going to replace him as supervisor. Now, I'm not the one sitting in this room with a Masters in Psychology, but it seems to me that it might make an awfully good motive, if Martin was corrupt enough."

Sands smirked a little. "I take it you believe my story then."

"Of course," Cam said, without hesitation.

For a minute there was silence. Sands cocked his head slightly to the side and when he spoke it was with a casual air. "You know… I'm not to be trusted."

"But I do trust you."

Sands didn't seem to know what to do with that admission, and shrugged as he crunched another chip. "Your funeral."

Cam grabbed a handful of chips out of the large bag of Ruffles beside Sands before answering.

"I'm not saying that I believe you didn't cross the line in Mexico, Jeff. I know you're a cowboy, as does the Company. I'm quite sure you took part in some less then honest dealings in Mexico to get your job done… probably even had something going on the side. Even so, I've known you since you started out and you're no traitor to your country. You **are** a loyal officer, I'll give you that." Cam snacked on a chip before continuing. "I'm not naive enough to think that the Company isn't aware of how some of its officers get the job done, and I definitely know you're aware of it. I swear I may never understand why, and yes, I might be a total idiot for it… but I trust that what you've told me about this whole screwed up operation is the truth."

"You trust me?" Sands repeated, more than a little surprised, but doing his best to hide it.

"Yeah."

Sands contemplated his words as he swallowed another chip, _'He actually trusts me? How did that happen? How could I let that happen? More to the point, how could Cam let that happen?'_

Sands couldn't understand it, but in the end he decided his head was pounding far too much for him to think terribly hard about the fact. He surprised himself and Cam when he laughed an honest laugh, something he hadn't done in a very, very long time. "And you think I'm crazy, Cam."

"You are."

Sands smiled properly for the first time since Cam arrived. "But who's crazier? The crazy man or the man who trusts the crazy man?"

Cam answered laughing as well, "I'd really rather not answer that." Sands' smile remained, as he simply shook his head in disbelief.

He couldn't figure Cam out. He couldn't figure out why the man seemed to trust him, why he'd gone to all the trouble of pulling him out of Mexico that day, and damn it, he couldn't figure out what had possessed Cam to give him that gift in the hospital. That one really ate at him.

'A gift? For Officer Sands? No, that just didn't happen.'

It was fucking maddening really, because he didn't think he was being any less of an asshole than usual.

'_I still hold fast to the assumption that he's trying to kill me with kindness.'_

"I hate to ask this, Sands, as I'm sure I'm not going to like the answer, but what exactly are you planning on doing?"

Sands smirked and grabbed another handful of chips.

"That, dear Cam, is for me to know and you to find out."

"What, don't you trust me?"

Sands raised an amused eyebrow; "I don't trust anyone."

Cam frowned a little and was about to say something when Sands continued. "However if I were to give a man my trust, you are most likely the man I'd deem trustworthy… which perhaps by default makes you worthy of my trust. However you may not be able to trust my trustworthiness so my trustworthiness I trust to you."

"You want to try repeating that?"

"No."

"You want to try telling me what you are going to do now?"

Sands gave a somewhat over-exaggerated groan of dismay before deciding to answer him. "If you absolutely must know, I plan on jet-setting to Mexico on the next available flight."

"What? What for?" Cam asked, knowing very well that if Sands was under investigation he was probably confined to the state and his 'jet-setting' would not make the Company very happy.

Sands shot Cam a "duh" expression, "For a friggin' siesta under the baking Mexican sun. What do you think I'm going there for?"

"One can never tell with you, Sands."

Sands smiled a bit at Cam's words. "I feel it's time to once again unleash my famous savoir-faire… Mexican-style, get decked out and kick some serious ass."

"Sands, I don't think that's the best move…"

"Well then I guess it's a good thing I didn't ask for your opinion."

"Jeff, how do you intend to find your way around and scout for information when you're still not… adjusted?"

Sands jaw tightened and his voice became dark. Cam knew immediately that he'd just said something that put Sands in one of his instant bad moods. "I'll do just fine," Sands all but growled, but his mind was thinking just the opposite.

'You know it's true.'

"You're pushing too hard and too fast Jeff. I'd hate to see that be your undoing."

Sands stood up quickly, his temper flaring. He was sick of his own weakness getting in the way and that had to end, now.

'Fuck it; fuck it all to hell in a hand-basket.'

"I'm going, damn it, and I'd sure love to _see_ you try and stop me," He sneered at Cam, showing the anger that he rarely let others see.

Sands didn't care anymore if this was a good idea, a bad idea, or even a feasible idea. All that mattered was that it was an idea. He'd be a fuckmook if he just sat here on his ass waiting for the Company to nail his hide to the wall. It was time to show them all, from every son of a bitch at the Company who'd betrayed him to every last asset in Mexico who'd abandoned him like rats leaving a sinking ship.

Just who did they think they were fucking with when they tried to burn Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands?

No one fucked with him and got away with it. Sands was, as far as he was concerned, completely un-fuckable.

'Wait, that doesn't sound right… maybe I should revise that.'

'Yeah, needs to be more specific.'

Cam's voice interrupted Sands' thoughts. "I can't stop you. But the CIA will. They'll arrest you as soon as they find out you are out of the state, and knowing them it won't take 'em too long to find out."

Sands was standing beside Cam, angry and frustrated and seriously craving revenge. Yet still, deep down he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. He felt that he owed Cam an explanation, and he sighed, feeling torn between his inner asshole and his inner… well, he wouldn't call it a conscience, he had lost that long ago. Still, whatever it was, it was in the way of his inner asshole, and he really didn't like that. However, in the end Sands found himself giving in to the side of him that usually remained deathly silent.

"Eric, you don't seem to understand. The Company is going to arrest me either way. I can sit here defeated, and wait for them to do it, or I can go to Mexico and uncover all those little secrets Martin is keeping and possibly save what's left of my career. Now, which do you think I'm going to choose?"

Cam closed his eyes in frustration as he realized that Sands was trying to level with him. Sands really was in quite a mess, and it was going to take a gigantic miracle to clear him if those within the Company had turned against him.

"But how the hell are you going to do it alone? For God sakes, you're not the Lone Ranger, Jeff."

"How do you know?"

'He does have a point though... Why don't I ask Cam to come with me?'

'Whoa… wait… admit I need someone? Never.'

'Whoever said I needed him? Why don't I use him like I use everyone?'

'Because he trusts me. Because he's still here.'

'Vae. This is getting me nowhere.'

"What if…" Sands started, trying to think of the right way to say it. No matter how he tried to justify it to himself, what he was about to say, well, it really was against everything he stood for.

"What if… I was to ask you to be my partner, Officer Cameron?"

Cam sat there startled for a moment.

'_Did he just ask me to come with him?'_

"Sands, I can't go. I'm only in between assignments. Who knows when they'll call me back for active duty; it could be anytime. Besides, if we were caught it would be the end of…" Cam stopped himself before he said it. God, it was selfish as hell, but he was thinking of his own career. And why not? Wouldn't Sands do the same?

Perhaps it was just his guilt but Cam could swear there was a quick flash of hurt disappointment in Sands' face before it was efficiently covered up by Sands' familiar, indifferent stony mask. "Why don't you finish Cam, or shall I? It would surely be the end of your illustrious and reputable career in the CIA."

"It's not that I don't want to, but…"

"It's fine, Cam," Sands interrupted in a cool, yet calm tone. "You're just looking out for number one, and believe me, that's something I can relate to. Now get out of here. I've got shit to do."

"Sands, I-"

"Don't bother to explain. You owe me no favors, so just get out of here and forget I asked," Sands said, continuing in a tone way too casual for the situation. When he didn't hear Cam leaving he continued, putting the bag of chips back in the kitchen, "I didn't need you. I don't need you. I've never needed anyone. Now I'm sure you have something waiting for you at the Company, Flash priority no doubt, so you'd better high tail it out of here."

Feeling torn, Cam could only nod and mutter an unenthusiastic "yeah", thinking that Sands had said the word 'need' one too many times for the words to be believable. Not knowing what to do, Cam wished Sands luck and was already walking out the door when Sands called out to him from the living room.

"Cam, you do realize what your next assignment for the Company is likely to be, do you not?"

Cam's brow furrowed in confusion, and he stood there for a moment nonplussed.

Sands' extended his arms in a sweeping gesture, his palms facing upwards. "Me, of course." He paused for a beat and tilted his head. "If there is one thing I know, it's how the Company works… so predictable, really. They'll ask you to bring me down, because you've worked with me before, because you know where I'm going and why, and because the Company will believe that you know me better then any of the other officers."

'Oh lord.'

Cam hadn't thought of that. If that happened, that meant the next time they met, they could be enemies. He didn't think he could take that.

Could he really take an assignment that would mean Sands' demise, a demise dealt out by his own hand?

At Cam's silence Sands dropped his arms and turned his back to Cam, but as he walked away he half turned his head and mumbled, seemingly against his will, "Non illigitamus carborundum."

Of course Cam had no idea what it meant, and after a moment, a bit unwillingly, he let himself out of the apartment while Sands disappeared into his bedroom.

However, Sands knew what he'd said, and as he began tossing things around in his closet searching for his suitcase, it not only became something he'd said to Cam, for who knows what reason, but it became his own mantra as well. One that he repeated over and over and over in his mind as he tossed the empty suitcase on the bed and began chucking things in it haphazardly.

'Non illigitamus carborundum. Don't let the bastards grind you down.'

* * *

Terminology

**Flash Priority** - Of the classified priorities in the CIA, FLASH is the 2nd highest  
precedence for CIA cable communications.

Latin Translations

Vae - _Damn _

Misc

Savoir-faire_ - expertise, mastery, know-how, skill, training._


	21. The Mind's Eye

**Chapter 21: The Mind's Eye**

With eyes that look'd into the very soul. . . Bright--and as black and burning as coal.  
-Lord Byron, Don Juan (canto IV, st. 94)

Sands had finished throwing a little bit of everything inside his medium-sized suitcase. He knew what articles of clothing he had, but had no idea which shirts and pants he had chosen from his somewhat large wardrobe, as he pulled things out of his drawers at random. After his frustrating packing session, he decided that he needed to make some necessary arrangements with an old acquaintance of his.

Luckily, Sands had used the man several times before and knew his number by heart. He was in need of the man's talent to set up a flight that even the CIA wouldn't know about… at least, not right away. Without the man, getting to Mexico in a decent amount of time would pose a problem. Driving was obviously out of the question. And he could hardly take an Air America flight to Mexico, at least not until he'd cleared himself. Any attempt to use public transportation would mean that his name would be flagged instantly. Setting up a false ID and passport that he hadn't already used would waste too much time. He decided that going to his old… pal would be the best course of action.

After an extremely brief chat with the man, Sands had arranged for a flight to Mexico for the following morning. He was a little disappointed that it couldn't be sooner, but his body was rather tired from his mind's brief vacation from reality and he figured a night's sleep probably wouldn't hurt.

Wandering back into his bedroom, Sands shut his suitcase and set it on the floor as he traded places with it, now reclining on the bed. He lay down even as his mind continued to work at a hundred miles an hour.

'Did I actually believe that Cam was going to risk losing his career to come with me? I can't believe I was so stupid. Cam is about as straight-laced as a man gets, and he would never have thrown out the rulebook for me.'

Sands sighed as his head hit the pillow.

'Not that it makes any difference to me.'

After all, he was a born killer.

What did he need a pussy like Cam for anyway? 

In an attempt to get more comfortable Sands punched his pillow a couple times before he rolled over on his side, and was rewarded for his troubles when his sunglasses dug into his face. Grunting and realizing he was alone in the apartment, he took them off and set them on the nightstand.

It seemed odd to him, just how vulnerable he felt without them now.

To him, it was like being an injured animal caught in the gaze of a predator. With his sunglasses off his weakness was clearly visible to anyone who chose to look, and giving the predator such an advantage was not an option. 

In his opinion, it was much more fun being predator than prey, and if anyone was going to be the prey, it was going to be those bastards at the Company that had betrayed him.

He had a plan. Well, he sort of had a rough idea of a plan. He supposed that that would have to do.

Somewhere though, in the back of his mind, was the nagging belief that everything he was doing now was in vain, and an evil little creature whispered in his ear.

'_It's hopeless…'_

As sketchy plans for his personal covert operation ran through his mind, his breathing became rhythmic and he found himself in a deep slumber before he'd even realized that he was falling asleep.

When Sands awoke again, he felt much better. Much, much better.

'Better than what?'

Air filled his lungs as he breathed deeply, still lying on the bed. He stretched out his stiff arms, and froze in surprise when his right hand made contact with another body.

A body lying beside him on the bed.

That's when it - she - spoke. The voice took his breath away, but he wasn't sure why.

"Are you awake, Shelly?"

Sands tried to keep his smile hidden as he attempted an irritated voice. "You know, I hate it when you call me that."

She laughed lightly, "I know. Call it sweet revenge."

He allowed a light smile to show through as he remained lying lazily beside her. "And here I thought you dug my little nicknames for you, sugar-lips." She rolled her eyes and his voice became serious. "Shelly is no way to start the day."

She laughed again. He loved to hear the sound of it. She laughed so freely, so easily. It was something that he'd never been able to do, although she had helped him with that a little.

Her hand found its way to his chest. "Are you going to keep your eyes closed all day?" she asked, sounding amused.

Sands cracked open one eye and groaned unhappily as the light rushed in. "I think so, yeah."

"Well, maybe you can stay here in bed all day Jeff, but I've got to go to work," she said as her hand left his chest and she began to pull herself up, only to find two strong hands pulling her back into bed from behind.

"You can't escape that easily, sugar-dumplin'," Sands drawled as he pulled her down on top of him. He studied her in all her morning glory. She was his exact opposite. She wore a knee-length white satin nightgown and her long blonde hair was wild and un-brushed. She had fair skin and eerily light blue eyes that seemed to look right though a person.

Perhaps that was why she was the only person who ever understood him, the only person who could see past all the walls he'd built since he was a child and see him for who he really was.

He watched her as she smiled and leaned against him; the sun seemed to make her glow, and, even though he was happy, as he looked at her a feeling of sadness slowly crept up on him.

'This will never last.'

She noticed the slight change in his face as his mood shifted, and immediately dropped her smile.

"What's wrong Jeff?"

Sands pasted on a grin that didn't reach his eyes, the feeling of loss remaining.

"Nothing sugar-love." 

"I don't believe you."

Sands decided to change tactics, so he smiled and gave her a playful glare. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he let out a small growl. Quickly he flipped their positions, so he was hovering above her.

She gave him a suspicious look. "You wouldn't be trying to distract me from finding out what's bothering you, would you?"

'Damn the woman for knowing me so well.'

Sands stroked her cheek gently. "Cecelia, it's nothing."

"No, it's something. You're different today. I see it in your eyes."

Sands looked at her, disconcerted. He felt it too. The two of them together, it was so right, yet today it was so wrong at the same time. It wasn't normally like this. He couldn't explain why today was different, or why he felt different, he didn't know.

Not knowing what to say, Sands made use of his fine command of language; he said nothing at all. Instead he leaned toward her and gingerly kissed her lips.

Pulling away slightly, he stared into her eyes, battling with his feelings. One side of him admitted that he loved her, but the other side refused to allow him to say so out loud.

'Tell her. Tell her those words you've never been able to say. Tell her that you love her.'

He swallowed hard, and opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find those three words. Those three simple words that he knew he needed to say, and that she needed to hear. Every time he tried to catch those three words, they ran away from him like a thief in the night.

'Now or never.'

He looked away from her intense gaze and his brow furrowed in frustration.

He couldn't say those three simple words.

He knew how he felt about her, but had no idea what to do with the feelings. But then, neither of them was going anywhere. He had time… eventually… eventually he'd be able to tell her.

'Now or never.'

Sands shook his head at the odd thoughts running through his mind and felt her cool hand under his chin, tilting his head up so he'd look at her. She smiled slightly; they'd been through this before.

"I know Jeff… I know. You don't need to say it."

He looked at her deeply, longing for his emotions to come through in his eyes as he softly spoke, "Imago animi vultus est, indices oculi."

Her smile widened as she tugged him down closer to her. "Ah, my Latin lover has returned to me. Adsum_."_

Sands ran a hand through her hair, brushing a strand out of her eyes.

"Ex proprio motu?"

She looked at him, almost sadly, as if sorry that he couldn't believe it for himself, as she nodded yes.

"Hic et nunc," Cecelia smiled lazily as one of his hands glided gently down her neck and she sighed contently. "Et in aeternum."

Sands could only stare at her and after a minute or so she shook her head slowly.

"Your eyes are different Shelly. They hold less hope within them. You're not the man I married, today."

Sands nodded. "I feel it too, but I don't understand it," he finally admitted.

She looked at him for another moment as he caressed her softly, and he noticed immediately when her body tensed suddenly beneath his touch and her eyes widened in… what was it? Shock or horror?

"What is it sugar-sweet?" he asked, as she stared at him and then looked down at her chest. His eyes followed hers, and he gasped at the sight of the red blood pooling and soaking into the white fabric of her nightgown. Sands looked back up at her in horror.

"Oh God, what happened?" he asked, willing himself not to panic. He looked back down to try and find her injury, but then realized that the blood was pooling on the top of her nightgown, it wasn't coming from her.

That's when he felt it.

He looked at her again, and she began to scream. He quickly moved himself away from her, and off the bed.

The blood. There was so much blood, and it was rolling down his cheeks in waves.

His eyes were bleeding.

Cecelia had stopped screaming and tried to choke back tears as she got up off the bed. "Jeff… I'll… I'll call f… for help," she stuttered, as she moved to the phone and dialed 911. Sands vaguely heard her speaking to someone as he turned towards the mirror in their bedroom. His breath caught in his throat as he saw all the blood that ran down his face, onto his clothes, forming a bloody pool beneath him.

'Now I know why this whole morning feels so wrong,' he thought as he walked slowly towards the mirror, watching as the blood flowed down and his eyes turned from their usual bright brown to a coal black.

'This isn't even possible. I couldn't be here with her, now.'

'It isn't possible.'

'And even if by some miracle it was… I wouldn't be able to see her. That isn't possible either.'

'This is a dream.'

He turned back around to see her still desperately trying to explain the impossible situation to a 911 operator.

'I just want to see her.'

More desperately than before he turned back towards the mirror, and shut his eyes tight, pressing the heels of his hands against them in a hopeless attempt to stop the blood from flowing.

He wouldn't be able to see her anymore if he lost his eyes.

He couldn't take losing her again. He couldn't take losing his sight again.

But the blood still flowed and now he was completely covered in it. He opened his eyes again, and watched in the mirror as they seemed to suddenly lose their fire and die, becoming gray and lifeless.

"No, no, no!" Sands whispered desperately and his stomach turned as he watched his eyes begin to bubble and melt.

"No, not again. Not again!" he pleaded to everything and nothing in particular. Hi eyes ran out of his sockets and down his face, sticky and hot, and he gagged. This was worse than the first time, because he could see it. He could see it all happening, even as his eyes melted away he could see as if they were still there. This horrible nightmare was allowing him to see himself as he was now, as he must appear to others. Those horrible dark sockets that held nothing – no life, no fire, no feeling, no soul. He couldn't bear it, he couldn't take it, he couldn't look at it any longer. His breathing hitched and his heart thudded in his chest as he covered his face with his hands.

He didn't know how long he'd stood like that, but when he felt her hands on his he cringed and tried to pull away.

'She can't see me like this.'

"Look at me, Shelly," she demanded, but he shook his head and kept his hands over his face.

"I can't."

She leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. "Your eyes are not responsible when your mind does the seeing." She pried his hands away from his face and forced his head up. The blood had stopped flowing now, and it clung to his face like tears. She looked at him sadly as she pushed some of his hair behind his ear.

"Now you see what I've become," he said in a whisper.

"And what do you think that is?"

He could still see her, and he was no longer sure if he was grateful for that or not.

"Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum."

A tear rolled down her cheek as she cupped his face in her hands and moved closer to him, their bodies touching. "No, Shelly," she told him, in hushed tones. "You could never be that. Non illigitamus carborundum." Her arms gently wrapped around his body and they melded into a forgotten embrace. "Can you really tell me that you've never seen beauty in this life?"

Sands started to pull back, confused by the unusual question, but she held him in place with gentle firmness. He let out a soft sigh; "The only beauty I've ever known in life was you."

She smiled regretfully as her head rested on his shoulder, and they stood there holding each other. "I've heard it said Shelly, that no eyes that have seen beauty can ever lose their sight."

He said nothing, only held onto her a little tighter. She pulled away from him just enough to see his face; she stared at him as if she could still see his eyes, and her own became moist. "You've changed so much, been through so much, and you will go through so much more. Stay strong. You were always my strength, now let me be yours."

He began to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips and he stopped before he began.

"I know. You've never needed anyone." She leaned into him, her lips brushing against his as she spoke again in a voice so soft he was unsure it was even there. "So don't need me… just remember me." Their lips pressed together and each opened to the will of the other, and the kiss was long and deep, desperate and hopeful, loving and lustful.

Then everything turned to black, and her touch disappeared and he knew that he had woken from a dream. He didn't move at first, not knowing where the dream had come from. Never had he had a dream like the one he'd just had. It had been so completely vivid, the colors so clear and sharp, it was still fresh in his mind.

'Cecelia… I haven't thought of her in a long time.'

He'd tried to forget her.

'...remember me.'

A single tear slid down his cheek and he brushed it away so quickly that anyone observing would most likely have missed it. He was vaguely surprised that he could even cry at all. There was only one other time that Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands had cried, in rage and sadness, and that was the day he'd lost what small hope he had in the world and in others. The day his family had left him, the day that she'd left him.

'Damn Cam for mentioning them – her - today.'

"Shit, what is wrong with me?" Sands muttered, as he sat up quickly. First he'd lost his hold on reality when he was awake, and now again, when he was asleep.

He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it hastily as he went over the dream again. It had been wonderful and horrible at the same time. He smirked slightly as he remembered what she'd said.

'Non illigitamus carborundum. Stay strong.'

He chuckled a little, as he figured out why he'd said that phrase to Cam, seemingly against his own will. She had said it, and Cam had brought him the memory of her.

He took a long drag of his cigarette as his smirk turned into a grin.

He wasn't going to let her down.

He got up with a new resolve and moved toward the closet that held his weaponry.

Officer Sands had some guns to shoot, disguises to wear, and slow-roasted pork to eat, and those bastards weren't going to grind him down.

* * *

Latin Translations

Imago animi vultus est, indices oculi. - _The countenance is the portrait of the soul, and the eyes mark its intentions._

Adsum. - _I am here._

Ex proprio motu? –_ Voluntarily?_

Hic et nunc - _Here and now_

Et in aeternum. - _And for eternity._

Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum. - _A monster frightful, formless, immense, with sight removed._

Review Responses

Everyone... you're awesome. Truly. You rock... and don't let anyone tell you otherwise!

-Scarlett

_"You know that withholding information from a Officer is a Federal Offense... especially when that Officer has paid handsomely for it and wouldn't think twice about ripping that patch off your eye-hole and skull-fucking you to death." Sands, OUATIM_

_"I've been eating potato chips this way for 30 years... 30 years." Mort, Secret Window_


	22. Heat

**Chapter 22: Heat**

Sands stood outside the small airport waiting for his driver. It was a typically hot day in Mexico, with a slight breeze that did nothing to take the edge off the heat. He stood silently by his suitcases wearing blue jeans,

sunglasses and a red shirt that read "Cereal Killer" with a picture of a spoon underneath the text.

He thought about his somewhat flawed plan… however, it could work. Sure, everything was against him, but since when did Officer Sands turn down a good challenge?

After a few minutes of waiting Sands heard a car pull up in front of him and a man get out and walk towards him.

"Mr. Wayne?" the man asked.

He had no accent, so he obviously hadn't been raised in Mexico. Sands' contact, Tom, had assured him that the man was trustworthy, and good at keeping things clandestine. Sands trusted his contact implicitly, having used him more times than he could count, and so he trusted this man as well. Of course, if this person aroused his suspicion in any way… that opinion could and would change in an instant.

"Yup," Sands replied as he picked up the smaller of his two bags. He heard the driver pick up his other suitcase and toss it in the back of the car. Sands settled himself in the front passenger seat and placed the black bag underneath his legs.

As the driver started up the car Sands dug in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter and quickly lit up. It took all of two seconds for the driver to notice.

"Hey, no smoking in my car."

Sands ignored him as he exhaled a large amount of smoke into the cab of the car. "Want me to roll down a window?" he asked casually as he felt the car start to move forward.

"No, I'd like you to put it out. I'll never get…."

"I think for ten thousand dollars you can buy an air freshener once you've completed this assignment and still have a little fun money left over," Sands interrupted, before taking another drag and rolling down his passenger window. Sands smiled in the man's direction as the arid heat poured into the car.

"Fuck." He heard the driver mutter under his breath, in a voice so low that most normal people wouldn't have heard it. However, with the removal of sight from his roster of vital senses, Sands' hearing was significantly heightened and he heard it quite clearly.

"I know you'd like to, but I'm a little too busy right now."

The driver's head snapped around towards Sands and his eyes narrowed at the CIA officer sitting beside him. Sands went on in a light tone and with a completely serious face.

"Work first, play later, as the saying goes. I never mix business with pleasure."

'This is going to be the most difficult ten thousand dollars he's ever earned.'

The driver grumbled, but said no more about the matter, instead asking, "So, we going straight to the hotel?" He glanced briefly at Sands for confirmation.

"No. No need for me to piddle-dick around this dustbowl of a country any longer than necessary. Tom give you the list of addresses and cities that I asked him to?"

"Yeah, they're in the glove compartment in front of you."

Sands raised his eyebrows as he took a puff, making no move to retrieve the list from the compartment. The driver didn't know it, but he wouldn't have been able to differentiate the directions from any other piece of paper in there, and he didn't much feel like explaining his situation at the moment.

After about a minute he heard the man groan and reach in front of him, opening the glove compartment and retrieving the directions.

"Are you going to give me this much shit the entire time you're here?"

"Probably," Sands replied shortly as he flicked his used cigarette out the car window and bent down to open the bag at his feet. "Head to Agent Ramirez's lovely abode."

"I'm calling Tom and demand he double my pay," the driver continued to gripe as he glanced at the address.

Sands chuckled at the man as he unzipped the bag. "Tom should have warned you about me… and you shouldn't have pissed him off."

The man frowned as he came to a stop at a red light and turned to face Sands. "He did warn me about you. Said you were a bad ass, murdering, psychotic with no conscience, who enjoys playing mind games." Sands laughed out loud as he dug in his bag.

'_That's Tom for you, giving it to 'em straight._'

"My kind and giving reputation precedes me."

The driver ignored the comment and went on, "What makes you think I pissed him off?"

"Because you're here with me, amigo."

"So?"

"Sooo…" Sands drawled as he brought up an automatic and a couple clips, "…if you weren't privy, Tom only sends me people that he'd like me to torment. His demented idea of punishment for small infractions." Sands smirked and snapped the clip into the gun. "Tom has such a twisted sense of humor. A man after my own heart."

A car honked from behind them and Sands jerked a thumb towards the front window, "Light's green Kemo Sabe."

The driver stepped on the gas and Sands continued to arm himself with various implements of destruction as they neared Ramirez's home. As luck would have it, it was only about a half hour's drive from the airport. "So what's your name Tonto, or do I have to keep making up names for you?" Sands asked finally.

"Jackson Hoff."

Sands snickered at the pronunciation of the last name with the combination of the first.

"Jack Hoff? Jesus, and I thought my name was bad."

Jackson looked over curiously. "Which is?"

Sands smiled as he pulled his hair up into a ponytail. "That's dangerous territory Hoff. Best beware of the no trespassing sign." Snapping the hair tie tight he started digging in his pants pocket. He quickly popped a couple of Aspirin, feeling his recurring headache returning. "What's our ETA?"

"About 10 minutes."

Sands reclined in his seat. He planned on _persuading_ Ramirez that it was in his best interests to help with a little covert CIA operation, as well as adding supporting testimony to the evidence they would find during said operation. Ramirez wasn't stupid, and Sands knew he would take some convincing, but eventually Ramirez would cave in. He always did.

A short while later Sands felt the car pull over and come to a stop.

"We're here."

Sands sat up straighter and gave an abrupt nod. He tucked one gun in his belt and held on to another, waving it in the driver's direction. "You're with me."

"What? Whoa, no way! I agreed to be your escort and help with traveling; I didn't agree to become your personal soldier. And I can't shoot worth shit."

"Well that's a drag. But lucky for you Tito, I can shoot, and I'm not asking you to do anything more than lead."

"Lead?!"

"Yeah, you know. Lead the way…" Sands said as he opened his car door and stepped out, "…and absorb the first wave of bullets."

"Hell no! I'm not…" Jackson's eyes widened, silenced by Sands gun pointing towards his head.

"Get out." Sands said slowly and calmly.

Jackson complied, turning off the engine and getting out of the car. "Asshole. You don't even need me."

Sands walked around the car, one hand gliding along the top of the hot metal surface as he did so. Coming up just beside Jackson he lowered his gun.

"No, I don't need you," Sands replied with a shrug.

'I know, you don't need anyone.'

"However Jackson, you can make things easier for yours truly. Now let's stop beating around the bush, if you'd _show_ me the way then I'd be much obliged."

Jackson pointed to the house angrily. "See where I'm pointing? The big house on the corner over there? I think you can manage."

"No I can't see it and it's true that I can manage without you, but the only thing that will be accomplished by you not coming with me is time being wasted," Sands replied, growing frustrated. He pushed the other man in the shoulder. "Now let's vamoose."

Jackson caught his balance and slowly turned, starting to walk towards the house, still a bit shocked.

'_He can't see it?' _

Jackson stuttered a bit as he asked, "So that's why you needed a driver, you're… blind?"

"How very astute of you."

"Tom didn't tell me."

Sands followed the sound of Jackson's footsteps; "The knowledge is strictly on a need to know basis Jackie, and Tom didn't need to know. Now let's keep it that way."

"A blind CIA officer, now I've seen everything. I'm definitely asking for a pay raise."

Sands smirked as they came to a stop at the front door. "Probably not a bad idea. This job can be detrimental to your health… but if it makes you feel any better, there's only a slight chance of you being riddled with bullets." Sands nodded his head in the direction they had been walking.

"Door?"

"Yeah," Jackson said as he let Sands step in front of him and knock on the door, "but for some reason that doesn't make me feel any better."

"Can't imagine why not. Doesn't seem to be any answer. Is there a car in the driveway?" Sands asked as he knocked again and Jackson finally took a good look around.

"No, as a matter of fact it looks a little deserted."

'Oh, this is just dandy,' Sands thought to himself with a frown as he knocked on the door one last time. If Ramirez had up and moved it was going to put a little bit of a kink in his wonderfully grand plan. Sighing Sands pulled something that looked like a small pocketknife out of his pocket and flipped out a long, slightly curved pick-like object. After finding the doorknob he inserted the pick and quickly maneuvered it until he heard a satisfying click. Grasping the doorknob, he opened the door and walked in, hearing Jackson follow closely behind him.

"I take it you've done that before?" he commented wryly as Sands walked around the first room, one hand trailing against the wall. He was walking on a hard floor, most likely wood he noted, as he listened to the sound of a slight echo accompanying his footsteps.

"It's empty," Sands stated out loud to himself, and heard the emptiness reply back in that same echo.

"Yeah, looks like this Ramirez guy moved."

"Vae!" Sands took his hand off the wall, walked towards what he imagined was the center of the room, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He was down to half a pack and would have to buy more soon.

He lit the cigarette and placed it in his mouth as he tucked the gun he was holding into his belt with the other hand. "Then he won't mind if I smoke."

Jackson shook his head at the officer before him as he walked further into the small house and entered the empty kitchen. Sands followed him and leaned against the kitchen doorframe. He heard cabinets being opened and closed and Jackson muttered something about being starved.

Sands cocked his head. "Don't bother looking in the cupboard Mother Hubbard, its bare," he drawled.

Other than transportation this guy wasn't going to be much help at all, and he briefly found himself wishing that Cam had found some guts and come with him.

'_Like that's going to happen.'_

After a few more minutes of pointless searching for crumbs, Sands grew impatient.

"Could you stop with the cabinet raid and go glance into each room and see if there is anything that he might have left behind?"

"Uh, sure."

Jackson slid past Sands and hurried down what sounded like a hallway, opening doors and looking inside. Hearing the footsteps fade, Sands quickly took off his sunglasses and wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. It was hot as hell, and his body was already starting to protest from all the traveling and movement after so much time inactive in a hospital bed. His head was still pounding as he waited for the measly over-the-counter painkillers to kick in. Hearing footsteps approaching, Sands hastily put his sunglasses back on as he reentered the first room. He heard Jackson come to a stop beside him, and Sands took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking the stub onto the floor.

"So, find anything of interest?" he asked at Jackson's silence.

He heard Jackson shout back, "No," from another room down the hall and immediately bristled, trying to put some distance between himself and whoever was standing beside him as he reached for one of his guns. Unfortunately the man beside him swiftly caught both of Sands' hands and wrenched them behind his back painfully.

"Indeed, I have."

An unfamiliar male voice responded besides Sands' ear and Sands cursed his own name.

'Damn it! Damn it and damn myself for being caught unprepared again.'


	23. Useless

**Chapter 23: Useless**

Sands groaned inwardly but he kept his cool. The man pulled Sands backward slightly as his grip on Sands' wrists tightened.

"Officer Sands I presume?" the man asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.

Sands swallowed his fears as his cool façade remained intact, truly his greatest weapon. "You know what they say about presumptions. They can be dangerous. I'm Agent Doe, John Doe. At your service."

The other man laughed lightly. Sands felt one hand leave hold of his wrists, loosening the grip a good deal. However, the tight pressure was quickly replaced by cold metal pricking the flesh on Sands' neck.

'Goddamn, how I hate Mexico,' Sands thought to himself.

"I've certainly heard a great deal about you Officer Sands. Or is it just Sands now? You know, when they sent me here to look for you I really hadn't expected to find you. I thought there was no way a man with your reputation would have been stupid enough to come to such an obvious place. Guess you're slipping Sands."

Sands felt a rush of anger rising in him but struggled to hold it in check. After all, such anger would be of great use, if used at the proper time. Sands' face remained neutral, showing no human emotions to his captor… whoever he might be.

'Where the hell is Jackson?' Sands thought. He could use some sort of distraction. Such a moment, no matter how brief, would give him the edge he needed.

'_Well, I suppose if I want something done right, I'll have to do it myself.'_

"Well you know, Slick, I guess I underestimated those nitwits at the Company for once. I should have figured they'd get lucky eventually. I mean it's all in the mathematics." Sands paused a minute and twisted his head towards the man, ignoring the knife blade at his neck as he smiled brazenly before continuing. "Guess I shouldn't have had that third tequila while calculating my plan. But let that be a lesson to us all… never drink and derive."

"You really are a crazy bastard Sands. Now enough with this crap, I'm to take you back to the States immediately… you have some explaining to do." The man shoved Sands forward suddenly and he stumbled slightly, but quickly regained his balance and pushed all his weight in the opposite direction to the one that the officer wanted them to go, bringing them both to a halt. The man behind him sighed irritably.

"Now I don't know if I want to do that. It doesn't sound too groovy," Sands quipped lightly.

The other officer was growing impatient, he could tell, and it was a good way to draw weakness out of an enemy. This Sands knew well.

"You've got two choices Sands. They want you back in the States, dead or alive, by tomorrow morning. Either you come with me, or I kill you and take your body. Now which is it going to be?" He spun Sands around to face him and stepped closer, still with one arm holding Sands' hands and the other holding his throat hostage. Sands pretended to think about the choices for a moment before finally concluding, "Those choices of yours just aren't jiving with me, Slick. How 'bout we compromise?"

The man growled and pressed the knife into Sands' throat, drawing a small trickle of blood from the new wound. Sands didn't react to the pressure; instead he raised his dark eyebrows and drawled, "Ya know, you should be careful with that. An inexperienced officer like yourself… you could poke someone's eye out with that thing." Sands baited him, hoping his fat ten-pounder would chomp down on it hard.

The other officer grinned despite the insults. "Well, well… there's an idea," He said snidely as he raised the knife and pulled off Sands' sunglasses, intending to move his threats upward. But the officer didn't expect what he found instead.

It was exactly what Sands had wanted.

He quickly took advantage of the man's shock as he kneed him in the groin… hard. The officer doubled over in pain and let go of his grip on Sands, completely caught off guard.

"Too late. It's already been done."

Sands followed his first dirty move with another, kneeing the doubled-over officer in the face. He heard a crunch as his knee met the man's nose, and his would-be assailant crumpled to the floor unconscious.

Sands bent over and swiftly found the knife the other man had dropped while he was busy worrying about the intense pain in his lower regions. Grasping the knife Sands stood and took a couple steps until the toe of his boot touched the body lying on the floor. Kneeling down he cleared his throat as his hands searched for the sunglasses the officer had taken. He quickly located them. Sliding them back on his face he returned his hands to the body on the floor, letting them do his seeing. The man was stocky, and about his height. He was fairly certain he'd never met him before; he certainly hadn't recognized the voice. Sands relieved the unconscious man of two more firearms before standing up briskly and calling out in a voice that could freeze water, "Jackson, you fucking squid, get your slimy ass in here or you'll be my next meal."

Sands was not in a good mood, to say the least. He heard a muffled, "Huh?" from what seemed to be quite a way off and after about a minute Jackson reentered the living room, finding a coldly furious Sands standing in its center. It was an expression Jackson was sure only Sands could manage to wear. Jackson eyed him warily as he took a couple steps into the room.

"What's your problem now? You asked me to…" Jackson trailed off, ceasing to speak as he caught sight of the unconscious man lying on the floor. "What the hell happened here?"

"What the hell happened to you?" Sands threw back as he approached Jackson, his suspicious nature suddenly returning.

'What if Jackson's in on it?'

Sands wasn't sure anymore about the man's trustworthiness. He thought it highly unlikely he had anything to do with it, but still, he would have to be even more alert after this.

"What do you mean? You asked me to look around the house. That's what I was doing."

"You mean to tell me that the last five minutes you've been scurrying around this house and didn't hear a goddamn thing?" Sands stopped in front of Jackson, a couple steps away and Jackson took an involuntary step back.

Now Jackson saw what Tom was talking about when he described Sands. Now… now he understood.

"I… I was in the basement, there's no electricity down there… it's dark. Made it hard to search. I swear, I didn't hear anything," he said nervously, uncertain how psychotic Sands really was and what he was capable of.

Sands weighed Jackson's voice carefully, and put it together with the rest of his short experience of the man. Sands tilted his head, looking for all the world as if he was studying Jackson with intense interest.

"Really, I didn't hear a thing."

Sands heard Jackson shift his weight from one foot to the other, heard him take another step away from him, heard the shake in his voice when he answered.

Jackson was lying.

No, he hadn't been part of a setup.

But yes, he had heard something.

Jackson had just failed to come up and check things out.

Coward.

It was Sands' theory, one he decided to test. He raised the gun, and pointed it at Jackson's head. "What good is it if a blind officer has a deaf partner, eh?" Sands asked, as if it was of no importance at all. He shrugged his shoulders and cocked the gun he'd just taken from the officer lying on the floor.

Jackson eyed the gun in fear and took another step back.

"Please, no! Don't shoot me, please. I'm just your driver. I'm not used to this stuff…"

Sands held the gun steady as Jackson begged a bit, before smirking mischievously and returning the gun to his side. "That yellow streak down your back is the size of the Grand Canyon, Jackson."

Sands turned around and walked back to the man lying on the floor. He couldn't understand why Tom had sent him Jackson, unless he thought the man had potential and just felt the needed to send him on the toughest assignment in town. Still, Sands had little faith left in Jackson Hoff. He tossed the unfamiliar gun he still held to the floor, out of the fallen man's reach.

The man was starting to wake up and Sands knelt down beside him, the man's own knife in his hand. Sands undid his belt buckle and slipped the belt from his waist in one quick motion. He used it to tie the officer's hands tightly, giving it one last hard yank for good measure, then leaned back a bit, waiting as the officer came to.

A lit cigarette was soon dangling from Sands mouth, while the other officer realized his hands were bound. The man started to protest, and tried to get up, but was stilled by the cold metal of his own knife against his own throat.

"I don't know what makes you dumb Officer, but it really seems to work," Sands drawled as he held the knife steady.

The officer's voice cracked a bit as he replied, making Sands smile at the obviously weakened man. "You're insane Sands."

Sands heard Jackson edge a little further into the room as he replied.

"If you want to be the best, you must lose your mind," Sands said, stressing the last three words in particular.

The man coughed and started to move, but Sands dug the knife in a little deeper, sure he must be drawing blood by now.

"You think the Company is going to find you useful the way you are now, Sands? Fucking forget it. They don't care about you. You're gone. You're history. You're nothing to them anymore!"

Sands jaw set firmly at the man's words, rage coming to the surface fast, as his mind sped around in circles.

'Don't let him get under your skin. Don't, don't, don't, don't, don't, don't…'

But it didn't matter how much he tried to rein it in. Those words struck a chord in him, deep and hurtful. They were his fears voiced out loud, by someone who didn't even fucking know him and who was at this very moment at his mercy.

"Ab absurdo."

The knife left the man's throat. It rose above the wide-eyed officer and was quickly brought down hard, sinking into the man's thigh. Sands twisted the blade, to ensure a nasty wound that wouldn't stop bleeding easily, before yanking it back out. Hearing a satisfying scream of pain from the man Sands leaned in close to him and whispered, "I seem to be more useful than you are."

Sands sat up a little and held the bloody blade in front of his face, as if inspecting it. "You know, you really could poke someone's eye out with this thing." Sands smiled wickedly. "However, out of the two of us, only one of us can be used to test the theory."

"You're a fucking lunatic. You do know that, right?"

Sands wiped the blood off the knife blade onto the officer's pants. "Well you know the saying, there's no brilliance without a hint of madness. Now, tell me who sent you."

"The fuckin' CIA. Who do you think?" The officer spat, as if Sands was a complete idiot.

Sands shook his head slowly.

"No, no, no, no, no, Mr. Officer, Sir," Sands said mockingly, "Who. As in what person, what individual, what superior, what hell spawn, what man or woman, what demented toad told you to come here and bring me back to the States dead or alive?" Sands ticked off the options in his creepily calm voice, tapping the officer on the chest with the knife blade as he did so.

At the man's silence, Sands pulled away from him a bit. "Alrighty then, let me take a stab at it… oh, sorry. No pun intended of course. Officer Martin, perhaps?" Sands paused a moment, but the man stayed silent and Sands raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Am I right, or am I right?" At the man's continued silence Sands smiled, knowing he'd hit home. "Of course I'm right." Sands said as he stood up and threw the knife into the ground, burying its blade deep into the wood floor out of the other officer's reach.

Sands turned back towards the officer on the floor.

"Now, I'd love to stay here and kill you, but I've really got to skedaddle. I'm sure you understand. Absum," Sands said as he stood above the other officer, flicking his cigarette ash on top of him.

"Jackson, shall we?" Sands asked politely as he moved away. "Move from that spot officer and…" Sands positioned his hand as if holding a gun, then pulled the imaginary trigger. His real guns remained tucked away, though still within easy reach. "Bang, bang."

Turning around, Sands followed Jackson's lead to the door, and sure enough, he heard the officer trying to get up just as he reached the threshold. Sands spun around on his heel, pulled out one of his guns, aimed and pulled the trigger. Not thinking twice about the man as he hit the floor again, Sands turned back around and left the house, making sure to shut the door firmly behind him.

* * *

Latin Translations

Ab absurdo. - _From the absurd._

Absum _-I'm outta here._


	24. Guitar Town

**Chapter 24: Guitar Town**

Sands and Jackson returned to the car in very different states. Sands was calm, collected and had an even more cocky air then he had before he entered the house. Jackson, on the other hand, was in a state of shock; at least that's what he decided to call it. He'd just watched this officer kill a man in cold blood. When Sands had shot him, the other officer hadn't even really been a threat. Jackson started up the car mechanically, saying nothing as Sands sat down in the passenger seat and shut the door, snapping Jackson out of his zombie mode.

"Jesus, Sands, you just killed that man!"

"Yeah, ain't it cool?" Sands smiled.

"You shot him!"

Sands head shifted in his direction and he shrugged nonchalantly. "Your point?"

Jackson blinked a couple times. "My point is that **you just murdered a man,**" Jackson said, stressing the last part of the sentence in a slightly hysterical way.

Sands adopted a pained expression and rubbed his temples. "Shit, we still have any undamaged windows in this car? I'm pretty sure your voice just reached a level that could shatter glass."

"How can you just sit there and be so calm about this?" Jackson kept on, only toning his voice down slightly.

"You know, people like you are the reason people like myself need medication," Sands drawled, as the thought of popping four more Aspirins entered his mind, but his face quickly hardened and he pointed forward.

"Drive."

His voice left no room for argument. Jackson pulled away from the curb and started down the road slowly.

"You could go to jail for life for what you just did back there."

Sands barked out a laugh. "What I did back there was nothing Kemo Sabi. I could get the gas chamber for what I've done while in the CIA's employ." Jackson's eyes widened and Sands continued coolly, "You know why I haven't?"

Jackson shook his head, but realizing it was pointless, made an effort to find his voice for a brief word. "No."

Sands smiled as he set the gun he'd been holding back in the black bag at his feet and answered in a voice that implied Jackson was stupid for not knowing the answer.

"Because I'm in the CIA's employ."

"What?"

Sands sighed and leaned back. "Few great men would have gotten past personnel, Jackson. The Company looks for those with the potential to kill, and cultivates it as we're trained. Not all mind you, but many of us have little conscience when it comes down to how we accomplish our missions. Make no mistake Jackie; the Company doesn't produce good human beings. They produce machines. Machines that are fit for their purpose. Those who will do whatever is necessary… lie, cheat, steal, kill… give up anything for the mission… their life, their family, their sight…. all in the name of the wonderful US of A."

Jackson gulped, sure he wasn't imagining the bitterness that had managed to taint Sands voice ever so slightly. "I never heard it put like that."

"You think that many people know that? Realize that?"

"I suspect not."

"Well you'd suspect right. Most who are in the Company's employ don't even realize how they're being used."

Jackson decided to say something rather bold, seeing how Sands was speaking to him in such an earnest way. Something he still didn't really understand. "Did you?"

Sands sat there, a little off balance from the question, but said nothing as he turned his head towards the passenger window as if he were watching the sparse scenery go by. The silence turned to tension very quickly and Sands seemed to cut the conversation off abruptly. After a minute or so Sands broke the silence.

"Head for Guitar Town. Paracho."

"Paracho? That's a good day's drive at least."

Sands turned back towards him smirking, "A day? Not if I were driving amigo."

"If you were driving we wouldn't make it out of Culiacan."

Sands smirk faltered ever so slightly, but he kept it plastered on for the sake of appearances. Shooting the rather idiotic officer back at Ramirez's old home had felt good. It had been entirely too long. The rush, the thrill, the power… it had felt too damn good to pass up. Still, Jackson's naïve way of thinking was eating into him and it was making him uncomfortable. "You know Tito, there was a time not so long ago when I would have run you over with my Camaro just for the fun of it. For no reason at all, other than the sake of killing, to satisfy my own twisted sense of humor."

Jackson looked at Sands curiously, "And you're saying you wouldn't now?"

Sands shifted in his seat a bit, as if uncomfortable. "On the contrary, if I were to get behind the wheel now I would probably run you over without even realizing it… and yes, I would probably find it hilarious once I did realize. However you needn't worry too much Jackie, if that's what you're doing. Offing you would put me in a rather awkward position, because at the moment you are of use to me. Besides, Tom probably wouldn't appreciate me killing you…" Sands paused for a minute as if thinking before continuing, "But then again, maybe he would. Maybe that's why he sent me you. He had to have known you were far too green for someone like myself."

Sands took his hair out of its ponytail and placed all but one gun back in his bag. After a few minutes Jackson asked, "So, why are we going to Paracho?"

"There is a Mariachi in Guitar Town that most assuredly owes me for his betrayal, and I intend to collect on that debt."

Sands reclined his seat, intending to snooze a bit on the boring drive. He knew El would be in Paracho. It was where he had found him before and it was the only home El had. Sands hadn't actually planned on finding El, but since Ramirez was gone, and he didn't have the time to search him out, El would have to do. Actually, the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea.

---

It was a full day's drive, as Jackson had said, driving straight through with only one short stop for drinks and a restroom break. Sands had said little during the drive, and Jackson could never tell when he was asleep or awake, something he didn't like at all. This was one of those times.

"Sands? Sands?"

Sands was reclining in his seat as he sighed irritably. "That's my name, don't wear it out."

"We're about fifteen minutes away from Paracho."

Sands immediately straightened up, bringing his seat back to an upright position. "Cool beans."

Jackson moved uncomfortably in his seat. His legs felt like jelly. He hated driving straight through without being able to trade off with someone else. Questions had been cycling though his mind since they'd left Culiacan, and he finally got the courage to ask one.

"How can the CIA go after one of their own officers?"

"Possunt quia posse videntur."

"What?"

"I said, they can because they seem to be able to."

Jackson's face scrunched up in confusion. "Do you never give a straight answer?"

"It's undoubtedly possible that the possibility is possible."

Jackson struck the steering wheel with one of his hands in frustration.

"Temper, temper," Sands scolded, wagging a finger in his direction.

"Why the hell can't you just talk like a normal human being?"

Sands smiled as if enjoying his own private joke as he removed his shoulder holster from the bag and strapped it on. Shaking his head to himself Sands replied, "You have much to learn grasshopper," complete with accent to match.

"We're here," Jackson announced as he drove into the outskirts of the small town. It wasn't much, and he could already see why Sands called it Guitar Town.

"Groovy, now head to the center. It shouldn't be too difficult to find in this one-horse ghost town."

Sands felt the car come to a halt as he finished loading his guns and assorted paraphernalia on his person. Sands sat there for a moment, deciding on which of his plans to use. Touching his sunglasses subconsciously as he faced straight ahead, he finally asked, "So, how's the view?"

Jackson could tell he was trying very hard to sound casual, and he briefly wondered how long the man next to him had been without sight.

Feeling a bit uncomfortable, he started to describe what he saw. A tiny town, with large buildings surrounding the small town square. The square itself was surrounded by small booths with finished and unfinished guitars hanging from the walls and ceilings of the sellers' stands. There were a few older men manning the booths, and a few others making guitars with very few people or activity other than that.

As Jackson described the square, Sands committed as much of it as he could to memory, and tried his damnedest to visualize it. He'd always thought he possessed a vivid imagination, yet nothing his mind's eye could see could hold a candle to what his eyes had.

Sands had to dispel those thoughts before he got himself depressed. He nodded briefly as Jackson finished. "Alright. You'll come with me, walking only slightly in front of me. Make a bee-line for a manned booth."

"And after that?"

"I work my magic and you stay out of my pixie dust."

Jackson nodded and bit his lower lip nervously. He really didn't appreciate the fact that he was being dragged into this, and he really wasn't sure anymore that ten thousand dollars was enough.

"Oh yeah, and Jackson… remember what I said about the subject that's on a need to know basis?"

"Yeah."

"No one here needs to know." He said, facing Jackson again. Jackson could tell he was adamant on the subject. "Get it?"

"Got it."

Sands smiled, "Good." His eyebrows waggled up and down a few times teasingly. "You ready to rock?"

Jackson sighed and opened his car door. "I'll never be ready."

Sands opened his door and stepped out as well. "Please don't tell me you're a jazz man, or worse…" Sands shuddered theatrically, "country."

Shutting his door Sands straightened himself up and stretched his stiff arms for a second. "All you are required to do is lead, shut up, stay out of the way and look pretty. So don't fret my pet."

Jackson walked up to the front of the car, waiting for Sands. "And my chances of being riddled with bullets this time?"

"I'd say they're pretty good. The Mariachi we're currently seeking is a bit loco, after all."

Jackson narrowed his eyes warily, never quite sure when Sands was joking. Sands confidently followed the sound of Jackson's footsteps as they began the walk across the square, looking for the entire world like he was scoping the place out.

Sands felt a bit of excitement at the prospect of meeting El again, and smiled at the thought. Sands' entrance into El's beloved hometown would come as a great surprise to El, and Sands just loved to make a big entrance.

He took a deep breath, as if tasting the air. Yes, El was here and he was going to get his attention one way or another. After all, in Sands' mind, El had a betrayal to compensate for and Sands was going to make sure that he collected in full.


	25. Siste, viator

**Chapter 25: Siste, viator **(_Stop, traveler)_

Sands followed the dull crunch of Jackson's footsteps on the dirt. If El had survived the Day of the Dead, then El was here, and Sands was willing to bet that El was anything but dead.

So Sands' real task was not to search for the legendary El Mariachi, something he'd be hard pressed to do, but to draw the man to him.

After a short walk across the square he heard Jackson come to a halt in front of him so Sands followed suit. Stopping just beside Jackson, Sands pretended to look at the merchandise as Jackson greeted a man at the booth ahead of them.

Sands however didn't bother with such pleasantries.

"¿Habla algo de Inglés?" _(Speak any English?)_

"No, lo siento, Señor," (_No. Sorry, Sir.) _the man replied, and Sands wasn't surprised. The man sounded very much like an old and weathered Mexican who'd seen little outside his tiny town.

Sands shrugged indifferently at the man's apology. "No piel de mi espalda," _(No skin off my back) _he said, not caring that the man had probably never even heard the expression before and had absolutely no clue what Sands meant. Sands continued before the man could ponder it for too long. "¿Ha vivido toda su vida en este encantador tazón de polvo?" _(Have you lived in this charming dust-bowl your entire life?)_

"Lo he hecho," _(I have.)_ the man answered shortly, and Sands guessed that he'd already aroused the seller's suspicion.

Sands smiled the sweetest smile he could manage, trying his hardest to look as innocent as possible, which unfortunately, wasn't very innocent at all.

"Entonces usted debe hacer un joder malo como guitarra, soy yo derecho?" _(Then you must make some fucking bad ass guitars here, am I right?)_

Sands rocked back on his heels as he waited for the man to reply. He must have been somewhat startled, as it took him a minute to answer.

"¡Eso sí que hacemos!" _(That we do!) _the man at the booth boasted proudly as Sands stopped rocking on his heels and put on a serious face.

"Entonces ha de haber escuchado sobre El Mariachi."_ (Then you must have heard of El Mariachi.)_

A pause. "Él es un mito."_ (He is a myth.)_

Sands chuckled. "Para nada. Él es tan solo altamente sobreestimado." _(Not at all. El is just highly overrated.)_

Sands heard another man start to move forward, and he tensed up ever so slightly, very much on his guard, but he remained calm on the outside with well practiced ease.

Jackson watched Sands work, and had to wonder what he was up to. He hoped to hell Sands had a better plan than the one he was currently implementing, as he was sure they were getting nowhere fast.

Sands leaned toward the man as he continued in a calm but demanding voice.

"¿Dónde se esconde?" _(Where is he hiding?)_

"No sé de lo que me está hablando." _(I don't know what you're talking about.)_

Sands tilted his head a bit and smirked, knowing full well the man was lying, no doubt trying to protect the brooding Mariachi. "Sé que anda escondiéndose en algún lugar por aqu..." _(I know he's skulking around here somewhere…) _Sands paused and leaned back casually, continuing to rock back and forth on his heels.

"Él no está aquí." _(He is not here.)_

Again, Sands shrugged, as if all his questioning was of no consequence at all. "Ah, que se joda. Él no vale mi tiempo." _(Fuck it. He is not worthy of my time anyway.)_

"Siento que haya hecho el viaje para nada." _(I'm sorry you made the trip for nothing.)_

Sands raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Ahora¿quién dijo que hice el viaje hasta aquí para ver a Él? Después de todo, este pueblo vende guitarras y sucede que yo me encuentro buscando una." Sands pointed at himself to express his point. _(Now, whoever said I made a trip here to see El? After all, this is a town that sells guitars and I just happen to be looking for one.)_

The man was again silent before the salesman within took over. "¿Oh¿Entonces, cuál le gusta?" _(Oh, then which one would you like?)_

Sands quirked a dark eyebrow at the man. "La mejor, claro."_ (The best of course.)_

The man must have nodded because he said nothing as he walked off to what Sands could only assume was another side of the booth to get 'the best'. Sands took the opportunity to light up one of his remaining cigarettes and take a long drag. Jackson got a couple steps closer, about to ask a question, when Sands low voice stopped him. "Not a word, Tonto."

Jackson wisely backed off, not saying a word, and gave Sands his space.

A wicked smile played over Sands' lips as a feeling crept over him.

It was a feeling that most people experience at one time or another, but since that fateful day it seemed to be another magnified sense to add to his ever growing collection.

Someone was watching him.

Sands heard the man take down a guitar and bring it back over as he took another puff of his cigarette. Truthfully, Sands had no intention of _buying _the guitar but it would serve its purpose well.

"Nuestra mejor guitarra, Señor." _(Our best guitar, Sir.)_

"Ponla ahí," _(Set it down)_ Sands said while he pretended to casually glance around as he smoked. He had no intention of tipping anyone off about his weakness by blindly reaching for the guitar. Once he heard the guitar's gentle thud on the booth, Sands knew where it was. Taking a step closer he pretended to be inspecting it. "Your useless opinion Jackson?"

Jackson started a bit, not expecting to be talked to at all. "Uh, it's… nice."

Sands' head moved in Jackson's direction, one eyebrow raised. "Jackson, do I strike you as a man looking for something **nice**? What I want to know is… do I need to counterbalance such workmanship?"

Jackson blinked. He had no idea what Sands was talking about. "Uh…"

"Is it so beautifully well crafted that I need to shoot the craftsman?"

Jackson's eyes opened to about three times their normal size as he stared at Sands, at a loss for words.

Sands turned back towards the guitar and cocked his head thoughtfully. Placing the cigarette in his mouth, he lowered a hand down lightly until he felt a string underneath his fingertips and then lowered the other hand. Taking a step closer he ran a hand slowly along the guitar, feeling it out. To the unwitting onlookers it just looked as if he was admiring the craftsmanship of the piece.

Sands' face was serious, but not overly hard either – an impossible to read mask perfected over years of service for the Company. He gently lifted the guitar off the counter and slipped the leather strap over his shoulder, still feeling an intense gaze on him as he did so.

Jackson came up beside him and whispered in his ear. "There's a man in a building to your right watching us from a second floor window."

Sands only nodded his head once ever so briefly to acknowledge Jackson's words before he tried out a chord. Stepping away from Jackson, Sands slowly began retracing his steps to their parked car. He smiled lightly to himself. He was no idiot. El was watching… waiting to see what he was up to and no doubt trying to decide what to do about the situation. Sands thought that for a killing machine, the man really was quite a square.

The cigarette dangled precariously from his mouth as he idly walked towards the car. He played with the strings, experimentally at first, listening to the unique sound each pluck made as he slid one hand up and down, the other striking chords. It needed to be tuned, but it wasn't a bad instrument. He paused a moment and turned back towards the small booth, taking the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so.

"Este es un patético pedazo de madera. ¿La mejor?" _(This is a rather pathetic hunk of wood. The best?) _Sands tilted his head and let out a disbelieving grunt, "¿Cómo se alimentan?" _(How do you feed yourselves?)_ he asked, his voice laden with sarcasm, speaking loudly enough so that perhaps El could hear as well. Truthfully, it was a nice guitar, but it wasn't the best.

'It's certainly not worth wasting a bullet over.'

No, the best guitars made in Paracho would always be reserved for one man. El.

Turning his back on everyone he took sure, deliberate, slow steps to the car and returned the cigarette to his lips. As he did so he began to pick up a simple tune that he used to play way back in what seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been years since he had played the guitar. He'd never been a great guitarist, but hadn't been too bad either.

He felt his leg lightly touch the bumper of the car and he pivoted neatly before seating himself atop the hood. As he listened to the tune he realized just how rusty he was. The fact that he could no longer see the guitar strings was not helping matters at all. Frowning ever so slightly, he tried to lose himself in the music, in the painfully simple tune he was trying so hard not to completely wreck. Lifting his face into the wind as a gusty breeze blew by, he recognized how much more important something as simple as feeling a breeze on his skin had become to him now. Sands sighed

'_My, aren't I getting all Dr. Philosophical.'_

The tune began to flow more clearly as his fingers began to loosen up and remember what to do.

Sands sat on his back porch staring out at the trees and the pond that made up the backyard. Absentmindedly he strummed a tune he'd played many times. Each time it meant the same thing.

He heard the screen door open and close behind him, but he didn't turn around to acknowledge the woman he knew was standing directly behind him. It didn't stop her from stepping into his line of vision however, forcing him to look at her.

"You're leaving again," she states, knowing the routine by now but never really able to get used to it.

Sands looks down at the string as his fingers shape the chords he's playing, avoiding her piercing blue eyes. Nodding slowly, he allows himself a brief smirk as he replies, "No rest for the wicked, sugar-lips."

"How long?"

Still keeping his head down, he answers in a slightly agitated voice.

"Cecelia, you know I'm not privy to that information."

"No. I know that you are," she bites back, not missing a beat, before going back into the house.

Sands lightly shook himself out of the memory. His ears began to shift their focus from what he was playing to the sounds beyond it. He could clearly hear Jackson's awkward attempt at striking up a conversation with one of the booth owners, but he focused his attention beyond that. That was when he heard it. A familiar clink-drag. A sound he'd heard before. It was barely audible, but it was there, and it was growing ever more distinct by the minute.

El was coming.

Sands smiled to himself, satisfied, as he began to hum lightly.

'Curiosity killed the cat, El.'

His tune became a bit livelier as the breeze swept up his hair and carried the sounds across the barren square. The song was flowing much better now, still a bit rusty and awkward, but better than before. Sands really didn't care, as long as it drew El out of his cave.

It was closer now, the clink-drag step that was distinctively El. He heard Jackson stop speaking, along with the man Jackson had been chatting with. Sands assumed it meant that El was now visible in the square, but he didn't bother to acknowledge his presence as he continued to play.

Clink-drag-step, clink-drag-step, clink-drag-step.

The sound stopped right beside him and Sands could just imagine El's perturbed stare, and all the questions that must have been running through his mind, but still Sands said nothing.

They remained that way for a good two minutes, not saying a word to each other, as if in silent competition to see which one would crack first. However, Sands knew who would win. He would, of course. It was the way things had to be. As far as he was concerned he could stay like this, waiting for El to speak, all day long. It was El who didn't know the how's and why's of the situation and eventually his curiosity would get the better of him.

Another minute passed and the moment came when El could no longer contain the questions that buzzed through his mind, could no longer try to ignore the enigma sitting casually on the car in front of him.

"Nice tune," El finally said, mirroring Sands' opening words to him when they first met.

Sands inhaled smoke from the burned down cigarette still hanging from his mouth and nodded as if only half listening, not really caring whether El was there or not. Smoke escaped through his nose as he continued to play.

"You could use some practice," El continued in his thick accent, and Sands could tell he was trying hard not to just come right out and ask Sands what the hell he was doing in Paracho.

El studied Sands intently. His black hair still hung to his shoulders, he still wore the same tacky clothes and sunglasses, and he still smoked like a chimney. It appeared that the agent hadn't changed much since their last meeting. He was perhaps a little less tanned, but otherwise the same. Truthfully he'd thought Sands had died on the Day of the Dead, destroyed by his own conniving, and he hadn't given much thought to the agent he believed had expired. He certainly couldn't say he was happy about the agent's sudden appearance on his proverbial doorstep. Yet here he was, sitting before him with the same air of indifference and silently dangerous malevolence as before. El had no doubt that the agent wanted something from him, something that El wanted no part of. Sands did nothing without expecting something in return that would be solely for his own benefit.

"I did not know you could play."

"Music, dear El, is nothing more than tequila for the damned."

El wisely decided not to linger on that comment for too long.

"What are you doing here Sands?" El finally asked, his patience spent.

Sands' head came up for the first time since El had arrived, and seemed to stare at El through his midnight black sunglasses. His cigarette dangled from his mouth, a dangerously long column of ash hanging from it, as he stopped playing, but continued to pluck at the strings distractedly. Sands tilted his head curiously as if taking El in.

"What are **you** doing here, El?" Sands asked without much emotion, just mild curiosity that seemed to be born out of boredom.

El was nonplussed for a moment before answering. "This is my home. It's peaceful…"

"This joint is deader than a Broadway flop on opening night." Sands took one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it onto the dirt road. Turning back towards El he continued, "But I suppose such a place suits a walking corpse such as yourself just peachy, eh?"

Trying to ignore Sands' last comment El continued undeterred. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a little wet work for you El… an operation purely for your pleasure of course. From our last little rendezvous I am fully aware of how much you dig a good wet job."

El said nothing, waiting for Sands to get to the point. Sands continued to pluck at the guitar strings, deciding to play along with El, as he took his turn at mirroring their first encounter.

"I want you to kill a man."

* * *

Terminology

**Wet Work - **Intelligence operations involving murder or assassination.

**Wet Job - **Slang for an operation in which blood is shed.

For terminology look at the end of previous chapters.


	26. Debts To Be Paid

**Chapter 26: Debts To Be Paid**

"That sounds familiar," El remarked casually, as he watched Sands fiddle with the guitar in his hands. Sands smiled, but didn't respond.

"Get out of here and leave me alone, Sands," El said at Sands' silence, before turning from him and beginning to walk away.

Sands chuckled, causing El to pause and face the officer. Sands stopped plucking the strings and hopped off the car, removing the strap from his shoulder and holding the guitar by the neck.

"I take it that's a no?" Sands said, still amused by El's reaction.

"How did you guess?" El asked, beginning to walk away again.

Sands let El go for the moment, as he leaned the guitar against the front bumper of the car. He stepped back from it, as if admiring it, before calmly replying to El. "Hmm. Then I guess it's a good thing I was only yankin' your chain."

He heard El stop again, and he pretended to inspect the guitar critically. He was starting to wonder what the damn thing looked like, and could have laughed at that fact. He'd never particularly cared about the craftsmanship of guitars before.

"Then why are you here?" El asked, as he walked back towards Sands, growing increasingly frustrated.

"What do you think?" Sands asked, gesturing towards the guitar and ignoring El's question. He knew his evasiveness was wearing on El's patience. After making El wait for a moment, he answered. "I came to purchase a guitar. Why else would I be in Guitar Town?"

"Because I am here."

Sands tilted his head in El's direction. "You're so egocentric, El."

El snorted, and Sands returned his attention to the guitar. "The world doesn't revolve around you and your overblown mythology." Sands paused to retrieve the guitar before continuing.

"The world revolves around me," Sands said, as if it was universal knowledge.

El shook his head, not buying Sands act. Something was up. He wanted something. "What do you want?"

"Soooo," Sands drawled, again disregarding El's question and infuriating the Mariachi in the process. "What do you think? Personally, I don't think this guitar is terribly impressive. Especially since it's supposed to be the man's finest."

"What are you doing here?" El demanded again, determined not to be swayed.

Sands continued looking at the guitar, and went on as if El didn't exist. "No, not too impressive at all. Can't even carry a proper tune."

El rolled his eyes upwards. He'd forgotten just how maddening Sands was. "I don't think the guitar is the problem," El said, a direct insult to Sands' poor playing.

"Oh! Ouch! That little barb struck my heart like a dagger El, truly," Sands said, his voice laced with sarcasm as his right hand flew to cover his heart.

"But I do have to respectfully disagree with your expert opinion. It's definitely the guitar." Sands paused a moment. "You don't think they're trying to gyp me, do you?"

"It's possible."

Sands raised his eyebrows, and smirked. "Well then, I guess I'm going to have to kick the saleman's bucket… so to speak."

With a sigh, Sands quickly shifted gears, deciding to get down to business. "El, I'm here to ask a favor of you."

El took note of the fact that Sands made sure he was controlling the conversation by forcing El to wait.

Sands would give up the information when he chose to do so.

The forced control was something that El did not like one bit.

El also didn't like the fact that Sands had asked for a 'favor' like it was the most normal thing in the world.

El watched as Sands carelessly tossed the guitar to the ground, and turned a full three-sixty with his arms extended, as if gesturing to the entire town. "Damn El. This place just isn't happening. All I can say is that there better be a dive that serves some good slow-roasted pork here."

"Why? So you can shoot the cook?"

"You know me so well, El. I find the activity very… therapeutic."

El moved closer to Sands, and attempted to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Why would I grant you a favor?" El asked, straight to the point.

"Because it will be fun! It'll add to your impressive – as well as highly exaggerated – myth. It'll add a little spice to your life… et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Need I go on?"

"No, and no," El stated. His decision to not get mixed up in any of Sands' schemes had been made as soon as he'd spied the officer in the square.

"No and no?"

"No. I've had enough killing, and enough revenge. I've finally found peace here. I'm not getting dragged into anymore of your plots."

"No killing? No revenge? Peace and harmony? What the hell kind of myth is that?" Sands scoffed, before switching tactics to hit El in one of his weak spots. "And here I thought you were an honorable man."

"Honor is something you wouldn't know anything about."

Sands raised an eyebrow, his face shifting from teasing to serious in the span of a second. "Well then, how about this?" Sands began, closing the gap between himself and El and pointing a finger at him. "You owe me."

"Owe you?" El asked, as if the statement was absurd.

"Yes. You, El Mariachi, owe me, El Oficial, big time." Sands stated, and El was surprised by the conviction in Sands' tone. "And if you don't do what I ask you to, I'll make sure to plaster your name - or lack there of – and place of residence, with its peace and harmony, everywhere in neon lights."

Sands moved his hands while he spoke, as if picturing the scene. "You've got great star power El. I have no doubt you'll be performing to a full house. With your name? Oh, you'll draw them to you in droves!"

Sands finished with a twisted smile, "Man, that's Broadway. I'll buy a ticket to that."

Once finished, Sands got the distinct impression that he might have pushed El a little too far when he felt El's hands around his throat.

"You think you can threaten me? My answer is still no."

Sands smiled, despite his awkward position. "You can't say I didn't try and ask you nicely."

El tightened his grip but Sands gave no visible signs of discomfort.

Really, compared to having your eyes drilled out, this was nothing.

"You call all this asking nicely?"

Sands seemed to ponder El's question for a moment. "Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, for me, I'd call this down right polite, because I'm a firm believer in the 'shoot first, ask questions later' policy."

"If you'd killed me then you couldn't have used me."

Sands smirked. "El, sometimes I wonder about you. You should know by now that there are plenty of places I could shoot you without causing serious damage. Bullet wounds can be pesky, you know?"

"No."

"No? You can't possibly tell me you've never been shot."

"No, as in I'm not granting any favors to the devil."

"Such compliments. You're too kind," Sands drawled, while he slipped a hand into his pants pocket, undetected by El.

Sands sighed, faking disappointment. "Really, El. You're no fun."

With a grunt El let go of Sands, but remained directly in front of him. Sands hand had retrieved what appeared to be a lighter from his pocket. Now that he was free of El's grasp, Sands fished his pack of cigarettes out, not caring if El saw it.

As Sands place an unlit cigarette between his lips, El continued to glare at him silently. The tension was palpable.

Sands brought up his lighter, but instead of lighting his cigarette, he quickly flipped open the bottom of the lighter and pressed it against El. Not caring where exactly it landed Sands pressed a small button on the side of the lighter-like object and an intense shock quickly passed through El's body.

Sands had been so quick, El hadn't even had time to register what was happening.

El hit the ground in a heap, unconscious.

Sands closed the bottom of the lighter, which doubled as a stun gun, flipped it so that it was again right side up, and proceeded to light his cigarette. He smiled as he returned it to his pocket.

Yes, working for the CIA did have its perks.

"So sorry El, but I don't have time to waste in mindless chitchat."

El would be out for a good half hour.

Sands listened to the sounds around him, trying to hear Jackson or one of the salesmen. Unfortunately, they weren't making a sound and Sands quickly felt lost without anyone's voice to give him direction.

"Jackson?"

"Yeah?" Jackson asked, off to his right, and Sands turned to face him.

"What are you waiting for? Help me get this dead weight into the car before he wakes up and unleashes his guitar case of death." Sands took a drag of his cigarette and motioned towards El, who was currently dead to the world.

Jackson hurried over to where Sands stood, and helped get El into the backseat of the car. While Jackson tied his hands and feet, Sands relieved El of all his weapons.

'Not too many. Must have caught him by surprise,' Sands thought as he finished up. Closing the backdoor, Sands put the two guns he'd found on El in the trunk, and was about to sit in the passenger seat when a thought occurred to him.

Reopening the backdoor, Sands removed El's boots, quickly finding a couple of knives and a small pistol. Smirking at the finds, Sands patted El down one last time before placing the new batch of weapons in the trunk with the others. Opening the passenger door, he sat down and heard Jackson do the same.

"Oh, Jackson? See the guitar out there?"

Jackson looked at Sands curiously. "Of course."

Sands inhaled a large amount of smoke and closed his door.

"Go fetch."


	27. Shoot and Run

**Chapter 27: Shoot and Run**

Jackson turned the key in the ignition, turning on the car's radio and clock, checking the time, before asking, "What in the world do you want that guitar for?"

Sands raised a challenging eyebrow in Jackson's general direction, and smirked as he heard Jackson grumble while he exited the car to retrieve the guitar.

Sands inwardly groaned at the disco-tech music coming through the speakers, and made a mental note to pick up a tape with real music on it in the near future before he went mad.

He shifted his attention to El lying on the backseat. Other than breathing there wasn't much movement, which was a good thing, as far as he was concerned.

Sands' attention immediately snapped back towards the front windshield when he heard the sound of gunshots coming from the square. He instinctively reached into his bag and retrieved the first gun his hand came in contact with, as Jackson let out a startled cry and ran back towards the car.

Sands clicked off the gun's safety and rolled down the window as a couple more shots were fired at Jackson. He tried to concentrate on where the bullets were coming from but was having trouble pinpointing the location.

'Goddamn it!' Sands thought angrily as he heard a couple bullets hit the front hood of the car.

The shooter, or shooters, weren't making much noise, nor were they speaking, and the radio was on loud enough to block out the softer sounds, such as footsteps, that he desperately needed to hear.

Sliding down lower in his seat, to a position which was hopefully semi-covered, he fumbled with the car stereo, pushing buttons in an attempt to find the power off button or volume knob. He succeeded in changing the station, flipping between AM and FM, and switching from radio to CD.

"Fuck!" Sands cursed as he struck the radio in frustration, and ducked lower as three bullets pierced the front windshield, the gunman deciding to target him instead of Jackson. Suddenly, logic prevailed and Sands just about laughed out loud at his own stupidity.

"Your brain has preformed an illegal operation and will be shut down," Sands muttered to himself, as he reached over and yanked the keys out of the ignition, throwing them onto the driver's seat. The radio immediately shut off.

"Jackson!" Sands yelled, wondering, not for the first time, where the idiot had hidden himself. He got his answer when an hysterical reply came from behind the car. Sands interrupted him and shouted, "Get your ass in the car!"

A couple more shots aimed towards the back of the car missed their target and hit the bumper. Jackson shouted back, "They're shooting at me!"

"No shit, Sherlock!" Sands bit back angrily. He opened the car door and jumped out, using it as cover. Evidently, the townspeople weren't going to let him take El without a fight.

"Well, fuck. I'm ready to shoot some shit. Bring it on," Sands muttered under his breath.

Listening intently he could now hear the dull sound of footsteps on dirt, beginning to move closer.

'Definitely two shooters, maybe three.'

A couple more shots were fired, aiming for his exposed feet, which were not covered by the car door. They narrowly missed their target, and Sands quickly stood up and fired a couple rounds of his own before taking cover again.

Unfortunately, he shot blindly, and didn't hit a damn thing.

He waited, listening for a distinct sound to aim at, and the moment came a few seconds later. A clear footstep as it compacted rock into soil. Taking the opportunity, he stood, aimed, and fired a single shot. As he ducked back behind the door, he heard a satisfying thump as a body hit the ground.

'Bingo, American.'

A couple more shots whizzed by him, and Sands was happy to realize that the man wasn't a great shot. However, the man also wasn't moving, and other than the gunshots, there were no sounds to help him take aim.

"Jackson, where is he?" Sands hissed, only speaking loud enough for Jackson to hear. The gunman had stopped shooting, and Sands guessed he was running low on ammo, and waiting for Sands to expose enough of himself to make a kill.

"I don't know!"

Sands growled in frustration and fired a bullet in Jackson's general direction.

Sands couldn't hear anyone else, nor was any other hostile fire being sent their way, and he decided there must have only been two of them to start with.

Giving up on Jackson being any help whatsoever, he decided to try and get the shooter to speak.

"Why so hostile? I must say, I'm not impressed by this town's hospitality!" Sands announced, hoping the man would answer. His weakness was proving itself to be quite a problem, and the only thing he had going for him was the fact that the gunman most likely didn't know he was blind.

"I won't let you take El Mariachi!" an unfamiliar male voice shouted back in heavily accented English.

Sands smiled as he focused all his attention on where the voice came from. He quickly stood up and fired a well-aimed shot before ducking behind the door again. They'd both fired at about the same time, and he narrowly missed collecting a bullet with his name on it. Evidently, the other man wasn't quite so lucky. He heard the body drop a split second later.

He listened for anymore would-be El saviors, and heard footsteps shuffling from where the booths were set up. Sands fired a shot into one of the man's legs, and he yelped in pain before pleading with Sands in Spanish. He never finished, silenced by a bullet in the head.

'Sorry Amigo, I'm taking no chances this go 'round.'

He heard more quick footsteps, getting fainter by the second.

A few townspeople running from the square.

Sands waited in deep concentration, still taking cover behind the car door. After an uneventful minute went by, he was satisfied that there were no more shooters, and broke cover, walking around to the back of the car where Jackson was breathing heavily and seemingly near to having hysterics.

Sands stopped when he reached the back of the car, where Jackson was currently hiding.

Jackson looked up to face the most frightening expression he'd ever seen, and shuddered involuntarily in response.

Sands was casually leaning against the trunk of the car… smiling.

As far as Jackson was concerned, that couldn't be a good thing.

"Sands, I… they… they were shooting at me," Jackson stuttered, frightened of what Sands might do to him while he still had a gun in his possession.

A look of utterly fake compassion flashed across Sands' face. "Oh? They were shooting at you? Poor baby. Did they hurt you?"

"Uh, n… no," Jackson answered, completely unnerved.

A man rushed out of his hiding place behind Sands, running away from the square. Sands turned and fired a shot at him for good measure. The guy let out a startled sound before picking up the pace.

'Damn. I missed,' Sands thought as he turned back towards Jackson. _'Well, no time to waste.'_

Sands thought as he turned back towards Jackson. 

Sands immediately started the conversation back up. "They didn't hurt you?" He asked again, tightening his grip on the gun he currently held in an attempt to keep his temper in check.

Jackson stood slowly, and wiped the dirt off his pants. "No," he answered, managing not to stutter this time. "No, I think I managed to come out OK."

"Really?" Sands asked, and startled Jackson when he shot a bullet into the dirt at his feet. Jackson jumped back in surprise and Sands' aimed again, before firing and embedding a piece of lead in Jackson's left foot. "How about now, Jackson? Did you manage to come out of this OK?"

Jackson fell back to the ground, moaning in pain. However, Sands wasn't feeling too compassionate. He roughly hauled Jackson back to his feet, and Jackson sagged heavily as pain shot through his injured foot.

Sands' patience was spent, and he was far too enraged to let Jackson get away with this second pathetic display of cowardice. Their lives were on the line, and he wasn't about to let the little worm get him killed.

Sands dragged him around to the driver's side, opened the door and shoved him into the seat.

Slamming the door shut, Sands walked over to where he'd originally dropped the guitar, knelt down, and felt around for a moment until his hand touched its smooth wood surface.

Grabbing it, he barked at Jackson to pop the trunk, and tossed it in with El's weapons.

When he returned to the passenger seat, Jackson protested. "You shot me in the foot! I can't drive now, you idiot!"

'Don't kill him, don't kill him.'

"You can drive this car with one leg. The true beauty of the automatic transmission."

"I'm in too much pain, and it's bleeding…"

'Good God, I want to blow him away,' Sands thought, as he cracked his neck. He brought the gun to Jackson's temple.

"I suggest you find a way to cope with the pain from a single, non-life threatening gunshot wound, or you'll suddenly find a piece of lead embedded in your head… and that, kemo sabi, would be life threatening."

Jackson searched for something to say, but Sands didn't give him a chance to answer before speaking again. "Much to my dismay, it seems that the only thing you're remotely capable of doing is driving, and if your ability to do that is now gone, then your life means less to me than the limited life-span of a fly on the wall."

Sands lowered the gun, but kept hold of it. "Are you getting my oh-so-subtle message?"

Jackson gulped and nodded his understanding.

"Groovy! Now drive this fucking car before I decide to swat you dead like the spineless insect you are," Sands said, as he leaned over and turned the key in the ignition, starting up the engine, and shifting the car into drive.

"Time to lickety-split, Tonto. I do believe your life depends on it."


	28. Game Plan

**Chapter 28: Game Plan**

The car bumped along the rough dirt road leading out of Paracho. Jackson sat tensely behind the wheel, trying to forget the fact that he was driving the getaway car in a kidnapping and was experiencing intense pain from a bullet lodged in his foot. Sands sat quietly in the passenger seat, puffing at his cigarette, seemingly deep in thought and much calmer now then when they'd left Guitar Town.

El had yet to awaken, but Jackson figured it wouldn't be long before he came to. Personally, he wasn't looking forward to that.

* * *

Sands sighed, and tried to recall where he put his Aspirin. The rough road was causing his headache to return, and he sincerely hoped the incessant pounding wouldn't plague him much longer.

A deep cloud of smoke entered his lungs and he held it in a moment before exhaling slowly. He didn't feel like dealing with Jackson right now; he was too busy thinking about what he'd just gotten himself into.

Feeling a bit stifled, Sands rolled his window down a bit more. Although so far he'd had no trouble pulling El's strings, he knew it wouldn't last. If El refused to be a part of his plan, there wasn't much to stop El from escaping, or turning on him the first chance he got.

He wasn't that blind.

When it came right down to it, he needed El to agree to be a part of his plan.

'How the hell am I going to do that?'

That was the question, wasn't it?

Of course, he could continue to threaten El with the cartels, but he wasn't sure how effective that would be. El was far too much of a live-wire to take his threats for long.

Sands tossed his dead cigarette out the window and felt the road beneath their wheels change from dirt to asphalt.

'No, I'm going to have to find a way to get on El's good side.'

He almost chuckled. It was a completely ridiculous idea, one that was damn near impossible.

Still, he was the best psychological warfare officer the Company had, so if anything, he thought it would be a worthy test of his skills. He was always up for a good battle of wits.

That is, as long as he won in the end.

'Doesn't mean I can't have a little fun with him in the process.'

Sands heard El groan softly, and begin to move around in the backseat as he came to.

* * *

El felt dazed, unsure of where he was. Opening his eyes he discovered his vision was hazy and he felt like the world was spinning around him. Groaning again, a little more loudly this time, he tried to move his arms, only to discover that they were bound tightly behind his back.

As he attempted to sit up, he found his feet were also bound. Trying to focus his blurry vision, his fogged mind deduced that he was lying tied up in the backseat of a car. Still feeling disoriented he tried to remember what had happened.

Slowly it filtered back into his memory.

Sands.

Turning his head he looked towards the front seat, and sure enough, there sat Sands.

As if sensing El was awake, Sands turned towards the bound man and smiled.

"Have a nice nipper-nap El? The Sandman didn't give you any unpleasant dreams, did he?"

El rolled his eyes, feeling oddly hung over, disoriented, and really not in the mood for Sands and his craziness.

"Sandman?" El asked thickly, trying to grasp what Sands was talking about.

Sands chuckled and raised an eyebrow before answering.

"The Sandman bleeds you of your mortality. He will blind your sight and fuel the fire of your insanity."

El glared at Sands. Nothing he was saying was making any sense. Not that that was anything new, but it seemed more random than usual.

After a short stretch of silence, both of Sands' eyebrows raised and he turned back around, facing the front of the car again.

"Still not getting it are you? It's from a song, you nitwit. Do you live in a cave? The Sandman is the controller of dreams... and nightmares."

El said nothing, getting Sands' little double meaning, but deciding that ignoring the officer was the best plan of action… for the moment anyway.

After a minute of silence Sands asked, "Are you giving me the cold shoulder, El? Really, we're practically old friends. That hurts."

El's hands turned into fists as he silently fought against the bindings around his wrists.

"Are you ignoring me, or are you asleep?"

Another minute passed, and the forgotten Jackson turned to look at the officer next to him, wondering what the heck Sands was up to, and noticing the mischievous look on his face.

For several minutes no one spoke. Jackson and El both thought Sands had let up until he suddenly started quoting some song or other in an oddly soft voice, as if he was telling a bedtime story to a child.

"Something's wrong, shut the light. Heavy thoughts tonight, and they aren't of Snow White. Dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragon's fire and of things that will bite. Exit light. Enter night."

Sands 'looked' at El.

'One must keep up appearances.'

Cocking his head, Sands finished, "You best sleep with one eye open, El."

"Do I look like I'm sleeping?" El asked, grumpy, and was surprised when Sands had no snappy comeback, only turning his gaze back to the road ahead and uttering a bored, "Not particularly."

El's disorientation, no doubt an after affect of the shock Sands' had given him, was beginning to wear off. Looking down he noticed that he'd been completely disarmed. He couldn't even feel the familiar weapons that he usually hid inside his boots.

"You'll be sorry you did this, Sands."

"Really El, what I'm going to ask you to do isn't all that difficult. Why, it's practically a walk in the park for a myth such as yourself."

"So you kidnap me?" El asked angrily.

"Well, I could sense that you weren't diggin' the vibe I was sending you, so I had to initiate plan B," Sands drawled, pausing a moment in contemplation before continuing. "Actually, it's plan C. I advise you don't make me whip out plan D, because it really doesn't have your best interests at heart."

Sands smirked as El asked, "And what is plan D?"

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you… as a matter of fact, that's precisely the main idea behind plan D." Sands paused a moment, and then snapped his fingers, "Damn. Cat's out of the bag now."

El sighed and attempted to loosen his bonds again. "Are you ever serious?"

Sands was stone-faced as he replied, "I'm always serious."

Giving up momentarily on the bindings, El dropped his head back to rest on the seat.

"All right. Out with it. What do I have to do before I can go back to my home?"

Sands smirked, not really buying El's sudden submission. He knew El still wasn't willing to do work for him, and was merely curious as to what Sands wanted.

"Close your eyes, click your heels three times and say 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home'," Sands said, complete with impersonation. "Oh damn, I guess you can't do that since your feet are bound and you don't have any glittering red magic shoes. I guess that means you'll just have to work for me again."

El grunted. "If I do this… whatever it is, when I'm through, will you just leave me alone?"

"That's a highly probable possibility."

"Yeah? Well unless you give me your word that you'll leave me be after this, I won't agree to do it. I'll fight you all the way."

"Perhaps, but you also won't have a safe home to go to. So it's in your best interests not to ex-nay my plan before you even hear it."

"I don't let anyone threaten me."

Sands head snapped around to face El. "And I don't let anyone get away with turning on me. In my book that, El, is betrayal," Sands said with an anger El had never heard from him before.

Sands mood quickly changed, as if his anger could be switched off like a light, and his voice reverted to its normal drawl.

"You really ought to consider yourself lucky. You could easily be dead by now. But I've decided, out of the goodness of my heart of course, to give you one last chance to prove yourself. You know, you seriously disappointed me during the coup. However, there's yet another balance that needs readjusting here in Mexico and I'm willing to let you redeem yourself in my… eyes."

El said nothing, just studied Sands from the backseat. He was just noticing it. There was something off about Sands, he just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"I'll give you all the details of the operation as is necessary. Right now, I've told you everything you need to know."

"You haven't told me anything."

"Exactly."

El was growing more frustrated by the minute. He wasn't used to being toyed with. "I have no choice but to do this for you, do I?"

Sands grinned at El.

"No, but welcome to the fold."

* * *

  


Song Credits

Metallica - "Enter Sandman" (I may be taking a great risk)

N. Michalak - "Nightmares"


	29. Control

**Chapter 29: Control**

Sands didn't know what the hell he was going to do.

They were going to have to stop driving sometime soon; that much was for certain. He was quite sure Jackson couldn't hack another full day on the road without some sort of stop, especially with his recently injured foot. Much as Sands hated to admit it that needed to be patched up if he was going to be of any use at all.

Although truthfully, retiring for the night to an actual bed and getting off the brutally bumpy road was not the problem; he actually welcomed the thought. The real dilemma was finding a way of keeping El under his control.

'Control. Power. Goddamn, it's never been a problem before.'

'Mix together some acting, a few disguises, an extra arm, some fast cash, a collectible lunchbox… and bam! You have yourself a victory.'

Never before had he asked himself so many times, _'How do I gain control of this man?' _and come up with nothing, nada, zip.

Before the Day of the Dead, such a problem hadn't been a problem. But now… now it was, for several reasons.

First off, Sands still wasn't certain that El had really committed himself to doing the mysterious job he'd been asked to do. It was possible that El intended to escape, despite Sands' threats. Perhaps El would even try to kill him.

Second, he needed to keep close tabs on El. If Jackson had possessed even slightly more worth than a wad of used tissue, he might have been able to scratch this one off his list. In the past, he wouldn't have had a problem, but now, despite the simplicity of the task, keeping a sharp watch on El wasn't such an easy thing to do anymore.

Which led him to his next predicament.

He couldn't hide it forever. He couldn't wish it away. He couldn't pretend it didn't exist. He couldn't change what had happened.

But it didn't sway how he felt about the matter.

He didn't want El to know.

Period. End of discussion. Case closed.

The thought of El knowing about his newfound weakness, the thought of him being privy to his stellar fuck up on the Day of the Dead…

The thought of El being _better_ than him, stronger than him, when just a couple months ago they'd been an even match… it was enough to make him want to waste El, right then and there, if nothing else just so these thoughts would stop bombarding his brain.

He also didn't think that being blind fit into his whole bitchin' cool persona, either. It was bitchin' alright, but it wasn't cool.

Still, if he was to keep tabs on El without any helpers, El would have to be within earshot.

Which meant in the same hotel room. 

In which case, his newly inflicted disability would not be a secret much longer.

'Well, what did you expect? Were you going to recruit him, get what you wanted and send him on his merry way without him ever knowing?'

Illogical.

Still, it was a nice thought.

* * *

While Sands' mind ran away with him, the tense trio had traveled several miles in silence. That was, until Jackson broke it.

"Sands, I'm not feeling so hot."

Fighting down several primal urges after being pulled out of his thoughts by Jackson's pathetic whimpering, Sands heaved a tired sigh.

OK, so in hindsight, shooting Jackson in the foot wasn't the most brilliant plan he'd ever executed.

Still, it had felt damn good at the time. It still continued to amuse him, too, when he thought about it.

"Stop at the next rat infested torture chamber, then," Sands drawled. When Jackson didn't answer, Sands clarified the matter for him. "The next hotel. Stop."

* * *

El watched the exchange between the other occupants of the car with sharp eyes. The two didn't appear to like each other at all, so much so that Sands wouldn't even look at Jackson when he was speaking to him.

"Why is this man here?" El asked bluntly, motioning his head towards the driver's seat.

Sands seemed to be jarred from his musings as he turned towards El. "Say again?"

"What's with the driver?" El asked, also curious as to what had caused Sands to become so withdrawn within the last half hour.

"He's good target practice," Sands quipped, evading the real answer.

"Do you need practice?" El asked, sounding serious, but really anything but. He got the impression that Sands was fully capable of taking care of himself.

"Oh, he's not for me, El."

El snorted. He couldn't match Sands' wicked tongue, much to his dismay.

"So, are you going to untie me or am I to do the entire job with my hands and feet bound?"

"Ah, already brim full of ideas for the new allegorical story of El Mariachi, are we?" Sands asked, feeling the car slow down and turn to the right. "Can I trust that you won't try to scamper off?"

El pushed himself upright, head spinning momentarily as he did so. "Haven't we already been through this? I told you I'd do this job, and in return you promised to leave me alone, for good, after the job was finished. So stop toying with me and let's get on with it!"

"I just want to make sure we're communicating on the same frequency. I assume there's no static on your end?"

El rolled his eyes and stretched his stiff legs. "No."

"That's keen."

The car pulled to a stop, as Jackson announced their arrival.

Jackson faced Sands, dreading the moment when he would be forced to walk. "How many rooms?" he asked.

'What to do? What to do?'

"Two," Sands said decisively, as he lit up his last remaining cigarette. Much to his dismay, he knew he'd have to keep El in close range, but he'd be damned if he was going to bunk up with Jackson as well. The mood he was currently in, Jackson would definitely be dead by morning, and he was running out of places to hide bodies.

"I'm not staying with him!" Jackson protested, as he jabbed a thumb in El's direction. El withheld a snicker at the man's obvious skittishness.

Sands smirked. "I don't think he fancies you, El!" he joked, as he turned to Jackson. "What's wrong Jackson? He's not your type? Well, not to worry, Tonto. As it so happens, you'll be having a room all to yourself. El stays with me. We have things to discuss… and I wouldn't trust you to keep watch over a garden slug."

"But you can't…"

"Finish that sentence and it'll be the last one you make," Sands interrupted, sensing that Jackson was about to let out his little secret before he was ready.

Shutting up, Jackson got out of the car with a groan and limped heavily inside the hotel to rent a couple rooms for the night.

"What happened to him?" El asked as he watched the man hobble inside.

"Got shot in the foot."

"By someone trying to stop you from taking me?"

"Does your ego ever need a day off?" Sands asked, before continuing. "No, El, I did the deed."

"By accident?"

Sands raised his eyebrows, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Do I look like I do anything by accident? Don't concern yourself with him. He deserved it."

When Jackson returned with the room keys, Sands stepped out of the car and stretched, before grabbing his bag from the front seat and setting it down next to where he stood. "Untie him, Jackson."

Jackson muttered under his breath, before opening the backdoor and freeing El from his restraints.

Sands silently prayed that he'd removed all of El's weapons as he heard him step out of the car, the familiar clicking accompanying him. Sands' hand instinctively brushed the butt of his gun, reassuring himself that the weapon was still there.

Cigarette dangling between his lips, Sands waited as Jackson grabbed his bag from the trunk, and El came up beside him.

"I'm surprised you untied me so soon," El said, with a hint of mischief in his voice.

Sands smiled. "Just don't do anything stupid, and I won't have to kill you." He bent down and picked up his bag, as he heard Jackson join them, grumbling all the way. _'I really need to put him out of his misery.'_

As El watched Sands, it occurred to him suddenly, what was different about the agent. It was the way Sands moved. His movements were somehow altered since the first time they'd met. El couldn't explain how exactly. He was more measured and precise, perhaps. That was the only way he could explain it. It was subtle, almost nonexistent… but it was there.

There was another difference as well. During their original encounter with one another a few months back, Sands' eye contact had been focused and undeviating. Now, even taking the sunglasses into account, El couldn't help but feel that Sands wasn't making direct contact, even when he was looking at him. It was strange… as was Sands' overall behavior.

El knew that it wouldn't be difficult for him to take off if he really wanted to, but in all honesty, he was curious to see just what the hell Sands was up to.


	30. Truth

**Chapter 30: Truth**

"What are our room numbers, Jackson?" Sands asked, as he and El followed Jackson's lead to the room.

"Mine's 219, yours is 202."

As they walked, Sands tried to stay behind Jackson, in an effort not to run into anything. The only stumble he made was a slight trip at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor, where their rooms were located. Neither of the men said anything, and he sincerely hoped that they hadn't noticed.

When Jackson stopped, Sands and El followed suit. Jackson didn't say anything however, and Sands was left wondering whose room they were standing in front of.

'Yeah, I've caught onto your little game, Jackson,' Sands thought to himself. Really, he wasn't in the mood.

"El, go with Jackson to his room and help him patch up his foot. I'm quite sure he won't be able to get the bullet out all by himself, and since I put it there, I really don't think he wants me to remove it." Sands added a smirk to the last comment, and held his hand out for the keycard. "Don't be too long now, El."

Jackson placed the keycard in Sands' hand, before opening the door they were standing in front of. El and Jackson entered the room, and the door was quickly shut behind them.

'_Ah, hell,'_ Sands cursed to himself. Jackson had left him to find his own room, and Sands hoped to hell that the room doors had raised numbers.

Sighing, Sands reached a hand out to the door and searched for the room number. _'Fucking asshole,' _he thought as he groped around. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the raised brass under his fingers. His index finger brushed over the number. 219.

'Crud!' He didn't know which way the numbers went. Guessing, he moved to his right and traced out the number on the next door… 221. He was going the wrong direction.

As he turned to correct himself, a female voice asked him in clumsy Spanish if he needed any help. Much to his embarrassment, her voice made him start ever so slightly. He hadn't heard her approach.

Sands turned to face the voice. Judging from the accent in her Spanish, he guessed she was American, probably around his age, but he couldn't be sure. It was hard to tell someone's age by their voice, he found. "Oh, excuse…"

"You're American? Thank God! It's so nice to be able to speak English to someone. My Spanish isn't anything to be proud of! I trust you have a good reason for loitering in front of my door?" she asked, only half joking.

'What kind of moron must you look like right now?' Sands sighed and moved to finish up his cigarette. "Sorry, I was trying to find my room and wasn't sure which direction it was."

'Fuckmook.'

She was silent for a moment while she put together his actions, the sunglasses and the comment. "Oh…" she trailed off as she studied the man in front of her. "Well, what room number are you?"

"202," Sands answered, while coming to the conclusion that his pride was now officially damaged. "If you could just tell me how many doors down it is…"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'll walk you there."

Sands smiled tightly, trying to contain his mortification.

She started walking, and Sands followed easily, silently thanking the powers that be that she didn't try to guide him by grabbing hold of his arm.

He decided that it would be bad for his reputation at this point if he let Jackson live after all this and he swore to kill the bastard when everything was said and done.

She stopped in front of his room. "Here it is. 202."

Sands approached the door before turning towards her and offering her a short, "Thanks."

"No problem," she said, and Sands could hear the smile in her voice. "Consider yourself free to loiter in front of 221 anytime you like."

'Is she actually coming on to me?' Sands thought with some amusement, though he couldn't bring himself to show it. _'Hmmm, could be fun… if I was staying longer.'_

Sands thought with some amusement, though he couldn't bring himself to show it. 

Sands found the handle and slipped in the keycard. Opening the door, he entered and set his bag down inside the entryway before turning back to her. "I'll keep your offer in mind, sugar," he said distractedly, not really intending to remember it after he closed his room door.

She blushed slightly at the nickname, but didn't let it affect her tone of voice. "Have a good night," she said as she walked back towards her room, quickly realizing that she didn't even know his name, but before she could ask, he'd retreated into his room.

Closing the door, Sands' slight amusement vanished, and quickly turned to trepidation. He was not looking forward to his next task. Reaching into his bag, he searched in it for a moment, before coming up with his telescopic cane, and extending it.

He hadn't given a damn about Jackson and his foot, but he definitely didn't wanted El to be in the room while he figured out where everything was, so it was a good diversion.

He took off his sunglasses, and slipped them onto the neck of his T-shirt. As exposed as he felt, it was a relief to take them off. To ensure they didn't slip easily, the sunglasses were fairly tight, and didn't assist in his quest to rid himself of his headache.

'Wonder what the lady from the hall would think if she saw me now?'

Sands shook himself out of his thoughts and began the process of acquainting himself with the unfamiliar surroundings. He wanted to know his way around before El returned, and having already squandered several minutes in the hall, he had no more time to waste.

Using the cane as a guide, he began feeling along the wall to his left, immediately finding the bathroom door, before moving on into the main part of the room.

* * *

He'd sufficiently explored the space by the time El knocked on the door, managing not to run into anything with the help of his cane. Replacing the sunglasses back on his face, he retracted the cane and slipped it back into his bag. 

Sands let El in before walking back to the bed he'd designated for himself, and sitting down. He heard El click on a light, then shed his heavy jacket and boots.

'_Damn,'_ Sands thought, mentally kicking himself as he realized that he'd just given El a big clue. Sitting in what was most likely a fairly dark room with sunglasses on couldn't seem normal.

Before El could comment on it though, Sands opted to get down to business. "El, since you've chosen to return, I think it's about time we had ourselves a brief tête-à-tête."

"How were you so sure that I'd return at all?" El asked, as he stood in his spot by the light switch.

"Because you're curious about all this," Sands drawled, waving one hand around halfheartedly.

El said nothing, although he was slightly impressed by the officer's ability to read him so easily. It was true, he had returned because he was curious. El didn't get the impression that Sands was out to harm him, so he was alert, but not overly concerned. Sands wanted to use him for something, and El wanted to know what that something was.

"Of course I'm right. You want to know what I'm up to, what I want you to do, and why I put up with Jackson. Am I right?"

El raised his eyebrows. Sands was dead on. "That man's an idiot."

Sands smirked and shook his head. "He's a spineless worm. Can't call him a man. I'll enjoy offing him when he's outlived his purpose."

El clenched his fists angrily. This was the part of Sands El hated. Sands had no respect for people's lives; they were nothing to him. Mere toys to be played with. Jackson may have been gutless, but was that really a reason to kill him?

"Did you think I was dead?" Sands asked out of nowhere, his voice feigning indifference even as he asked a serious question.

El was taken aback for a moment, but recovered quickly. "I did."

"Did that make you happy?" Sands asked, keeping his voice neutral.

El thought for a moment about the question. Had he been happy when he thought Sands had been a casualty of the coup? Had he been relieved when he thought that Sands could cause no more trouble? "Yes."

Sands gave a short laugh. "And you think I'm a heartless bastard?"

"You are heartless! You care nothing for others. I was relieved to think that you would cause no more trouble in Culiacan, or anywhere else in Mexico!" El spat.

"El, El, El. You really are falling short of my expectations. I'd heard the buzz that you were a good man – whatever that's supposed to mean. But I found that to be faulty intelligence during the coup. You owe me for that."

"I owe you?" El asked, incredulous. "What the hell for?"

"Your betrayal, El."

"As usual, you make no sense."

"Say what you will about me, El. Call me a power-hungry, murdering, manipulative, whacked-out nut job if it makes you feel better. Declare to the world that I'm an asshole who doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself… it's all true, I won't deny it. But don't you fucking preach to me. Who betrayed who?"

"I didn't betray you," El ground out. Sands was taxing his patience. He had thought that they were going to talk about what Sands wanted him to do, but Sands had veered off the subject rather quickly.

"Oh no? I gave you what you wanted – craved – so desperately. I gave you your chance for revenge, all wrapped up and decorated with a spiffy bow. But nothing is free, El. Nothing," Sands said, anger creeping into his drawl. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? You got your revenge. Hell, not only that, you got some cold hard cash to go with it, didn't you? Don't bother answering; I know you did. When you had everything I suppose you decided I could just go fuck myself. Justify it any way you want, but I fulfilled my side of the bargain, and you fucked me over. That's not something I tend to forget."

"Fuck you, Sands! What happened to me didn't concern you, or what happened in Culiacan," El retorted. He didn't really understand why Sands was so upset. He hadn't seen Sands as anything but calm and collected before this.

"Really?" Sands held up a finger, completely furious, but attempting to keep it in check. "Shall I count the ways, El? You agreed to become a temporary agent for the CIA, working under my handling. We both decided upon a mutually advantageous exchange, over a delicious entrée of slow roasted pork I might add. You agreed to kill Marquez, and in exchange I gave you information, a chance for revenge, and protection against the cartel…"

"I killed Marquez, and some protection you gave me! Cucuy was more loyal to Barillo than to you."

Sands laughed, a harsh sound that held no amusement. "Of course I know that now… but let me get this straight. When Cucuy turncoats, you don't even give me a jingle and alert me to the fact that he's a fucking rat traitor, spilling information to Barillo. Do you warn me at all? No! You cut off all communications with me, your superior I might add, and turn traitor right along with him! That's fucking fabulous El."

"Cucuy turned me…"

Sands continued as if El wasn't speaking, too angry to hear what El was saying anyway. "What else? Oh yeah, you killed Marquez but made certain the CIA operation wouldn't succeed by smuggling the President out of Culiacan. The President was supposed to die. You knew that." Sands pointed a finger at El. "A failed operation… that makes me look bad, El. I really don't like that. But is that all? Oh no, it's not, is it? Where's the money El? Oh, I know you found it. Did you take it? Of course you did!"

Sands stood and ran a hand through his hair as his anxiety level rose, before turning to El again. Only El wasn't there anymore, unbeknownst to Sands. He'd moved further into the room during the officer's angry rant.

"That was **my** fucking money, El. Mine! Do you have any idea what I sacrificed for that money? Do you know what the fuck I went through, who I killed, what I now have to live with, all for that fucking twenty million that I didn't see a peso of?"

El watched Sands in confusion. Sands wasn't facing him… Sands was shouting at the spot where he had stood before. The wheels started turning in El's mind, slowly at first, but gaining momentum by the second. He thought that he might know what was wrong with Sands now. Deciding to test his theory, El attempted to smother the sound of the chains on his pants that normally jangled with his every step, and moved deeper into the room, saying nothing to the infuriated officer in the process. The result was a stealthily quiet move from one spot to another.

"You snatched some of that money, didn't you El? That's blood money, and do you know whose blood is on it? Mine! You left me hung out to fucking dry when Cucuy blew my cover to the Barillo cartel. What the fucking hell do you call all that shit, if not betrayal?"

Sands couldn't stop now, his anger taking control. He didn't care that he was being irrational about El's involvement in the roll-up of his operation. He didn't care that Ajedrez was the main reason for his fall.

She was dead, but El was here. El's life was back on track, deceased wife newly avenged, and to top it all off, El was now, at the very least, a few thousand peso's richer, with a peaceful home to go to when this was over.

And of course, a fact not to be forgotten… El could see.

How he hated El for all that. How he wanted to blow El's fucking brains out right here, right now.

El fought down the urge to shout back. He was not the villain. Sands was the villain. Sands was the manipulating sociopath. Not him. Sands. It was Sands who'd started the entire mess.

Sands was still facing nothing, and shouting at no one. El thought it looked as though Sands' was shouting at an invisible enemy that only he could see. But El knew the truth now. He'd put it all together, and figured out what Sands was trying so hard to hide from him.

Sands wasn't screaming at a man only he could see.

Sands couldn't see at all.

"You cluster-fucked my operation all to hell! You have no idea what the consequences of that were. But why should you care? You don't have to live with them!"

Sands removed his gun from its holster, too angry to think clearly, and aimed it at El, or rather, where he thought El still stood.

"What the fuck did I ever do to you, El? Why am I the villain while you're the hero? Could you explain that to me, because I'm really not grasping it."

El eyed the gun, not overly concerned. Sands' aim was off its mark by a good 5 feet. Now that he knew Sands' weakness, he could use it to his advantage. This was his chance to rid himself, and Mexico, of CIA Officer Sands, once and for all. As long as Sands couldn't hear him, he could catch the officer off guard.

Sands panted heavily, finger tightening around the trigger, feeling himself losing control. He knew this wasn't the time for it, but he couldn't stop his fury now; it was like a freight train derailing. He felt bitter and angry and depressed and he feared that he would pull the trigger of the gun he held, kill El, and fuck himself over in the process.

"What? No snide remark, El? Have you nothing to say in your defense?" Sands asked, after the long stretch of silence began to unnerve him. El still said nothing. It was his preferred tactic, it seemed. He was a man of limited words. Sands hadn't cared before, but now it bothered him; because he couldn't read El now. He couldn't see where El was or what he was doing. He couldn't tell what El was thinking if El didn't give him anything to go on. Was El shocked by his rant? Was he putting things together? Was he waiting for him to continue? Was he planning a way to escape? Was he about to attack him?

He didn't know.

"Answer me, El!" Sands shouted, as his breathing became quick and shallow. The silence stretched on and he was beginning to panic. "Fucking say something!"

Still, all was quiet. Sands' gun wavered as a shiver involuntarily ran down his arm.

Silence.

Sands' world was nothing if there was no sound, no voices, no noise. Fearful, Sands continued to try and contain his obvious anxiety. "What's the matter El? Cat got your tongue?" Sands asked, trying to cover up his panic.

Silence.

Sands swallowed hard. He knew now. He'd fucked up and given it away. El knew. It was the only explanation for the sudden eerie quiet. El had to know that he couldn't see, and was using his disability against him.

'Goddamn it! Where are you, El?' Sands thought, and catching the slightest sound of a breath, spun around and aimed at where the sound had come from. Sands wasn't even sure it was a breath he'd heard, but he had no other noises to go on.

El edged his way towards the officer when Sands quickly turned and correctly redirected his aim.

Looking at what was nearby, El had picked up a complimentary hotel notepad from the desk, when Sands spoke again.

"Don't you have anything you'd like to say? Don't you want to tell me how much you hate me? Hate what I tried to do to Mexico? Hate how I control the balance?"

El could tell that Sands was desperate for him to say something, or make some kind of sound. If El hadn't known what Sands was like, he might have actually felt sorry for him.

Quiet fell over the room again, and El tossed the notepad across the room. It landed on one of the beds with a soft thump and Sands spun around towards the noise. Fear overriding reason, Sands pulled the trigger, shooting the notepad dead center. The bullet went through the mattress, and embedded itself in the floor.

With the silencer, his gun made little noise. However, Sands knew the sound of a bullet entering flesh by now, having experienced it enough himself, and that wasn't it. El was playing with him.

Sands began to feel lightheaded as his breathing continued at its unnaturally quick pace. He tried to force a couple deep breaths, only half succeeding.

Sands emitted a short, frantic laugh. "I do believe you're beginning to catch on El. Very clever! Not very sporting, but a genuinely crooked attempt to rig the game, all the same!"

El had used the moment to get a few steps closer to Sands, but now stood completely still, barely daring to breathe. Sands' accurate aim at the false target demonstrated to El that Sands was a dangerously good shot, despite his obvious disability.

Sands tisk-tisked as he continued, gun lowered slightly, listening intently. "Puto vos esse molestissimos."

El again timed things right, and picked up the hotel's phone number list as Sands spoke. This time El chucked the object to the other side of the room, causing Sands to do a quick one-eighty to face the new noise it made when it landed. However, Sands didn't fall for it; he didn't pull the trigger this time, clearly catching on to El's tactics.

"This is a fun game of Marco Polo, El. Truly. But we're missing the water to do this right."

El, now too far away from any objects that he could hurl, was close enough to Sands to make his move. He lurched forward and Sands spun around, hearing his approach. El, however, clearly had the advantage, and twisted the gun out of Sands' grasp before he'd even had a chance to fully turn around.

In desperation, Sands' reached for the gun but quickly found himself in a painful grasp, both arms behind his back. Sands fought El's hold but was unable to loosen the Mariachi's grasp. "My, my, my. This is really cozy, El."

Leaning close to Sands, El demanded, in a tone that left no room for argument, "Sands. What the hell do you want?"

"What do I want?" Sands repeated, before starting to laugh madly. "What do I want? Want? I want this past three months to be one big fucking nightmare I'm about to wake up from. I want my sight back, I want my control back, I want my job back, I want my fucking life back! Would you like me to make you a list? Do you want it alphabetized, El?"

El was silent a moment as he digested Sands' outburst. "I can't let you live," he said finally.

Sands breathing was labored as he tried to free himself from El's grasp again. "I didn't know you were such a fucking coward, El."

El's grip on Sands tightened. "I am no coward."

Sands crooked his neck to face him. "You won't even fight me like a man. Hiding yourself from me like some frightened child."

El growled and relieved Sands of all his firearms, before roughly throwing him down on the floor.

Caught by surprise, Sands hit the floor hard and his sunglasses slipped off. El was unaware of it though, only able to see the back of Sands' head. Head down, Sands groped around before quickly locating his sunglasses. Just as he was about to put them on, several things happened all at once. El cocked a gun, the room door burst open, and another gun fired.

* * *

Latin Translations:

Puto vos esse molestissimos. - You are very annoying.


	31. Balance

**Chapter 31: Balance**

Sands head snapped up towards the hotel room door as it was forced open, sunglasses still in his hand. A gun fired, and all Sands knew was that the bullet didn't hit him. He attempted to make sense of all the sounds, suddenly remembering that he still clutched his sunglasses in his hand.

"You know Sands, you really ought to stop playing with your catches."

Under different circumstances, Sands might have allowed himself a smile at the sound of the familiar voice. Instead, his hand quickly found his hidden 9mm sub-compact pistol. He slipped his sunglasses back on before El was able to see anything and commented, "Just think Cam, this little mouse actually thought he was getting away."

Cam came further into the room as he continued to aim his gun at El. "The first shot was a warning. Drop the gun, and don't move," he said.

Sands got back to his feet. He felt shaky, and his body was spent. He still wasn't quite sure where El was, since he continued to remain silent. He knew one thing however, he'd definitely had had enough of El's little games.

'Fuck. This is no time for another breakdown.'

Sands inhaled deeply through his nose, before letting his breath out slowly.

'Get your shit together.'

Cam glanced at Sands from out of the corner of his eye. Sands pallor was a bad sign, and something he'd hoped he would never have to see again. His face was a mask of stone, and Cam knew Sands well enough to know that the expression was one of extreme anger. He eyed Sands' pistol warily, hoping he wouldn't see fit to use it.

Cam shifted his gaze to the stranger and repeated his order. "Drop the gun, or we'll both shoot you."

El glared at Cam, as if in silent challenge. Coming to a decision, El tossed his gun onto the bed in front of him. He didn't want to start a gunfight.

Cam lowered his gun, but kept it cocked and ready. "Who are you?"

Sands was retrieving the gun that El had forced from his grasp when he answered for the Mariachi.

"Oh, Cam, this is the great El Mariachi," Sands drawled as he picked up the .45 and tucked the compact 9mm away once again. "Only, he's really not so great, are you El? Those myths really paint quite an inaccurate portrait."

El, seeing no point in keeping up his silence, finally spoke. "You believe you are a good man?" he asked Sands, his tone disbelieving.

Sands smirked, as El's voice gave him his bearing, and a target. "No," Sands stated simply, taking a step closer to the Mariachi, his confidence returning now that he knew where El was.

Cam took a step away from the two, knowing full well that Sands had the situation under control.

Sands stood directly beside El before speaking. "I never claimed to be a good man, El. People expect me to be bad, and I don't like to disappoint." With no warning, Sands cracked El on the back of the head with the butt of his gun, and El crumpled to the ground. "No one fucks with me, El."

Cam watched as Sands stood over El's unconscious body, as if frozen in time. Turning away, Cam went over and shut the room door. When he turned back round, he found himself staring down the barrel of Sands' gun.

"And what, pray tell, are you doing here Cam?"

Cam sighed. He had been expecting this. He hadn't thought for a minute that Sands would just up and believe that he was here to help him. "Officially or unofficially?" he asked, moving into the room and sitting in a chair by the desk.

Sands lowered his gun, but kept it ready. "Oh, I'm quite sure that I'm already privy to your official business. However, my question for you is… how far will you go for the Company?"

Cam looked down at the carpet in thought before answering. "Not as far as they want me to go, apparently."

Still standing, Sands waited for him to continue.

"As you're well aware, officially I'm here to take you back to Langley… and if you offer resistance, I'm to silence you."

"Silence me. Is that what the Company is calling executive action nowadays?" he asked, as his finger idly flicked the gun's safety on and off.

"Their exact words to me."

Sands shook his head slightly. "Damn, this political correctness crap really has gone too far."

"What the Company doesn't know is that I can't do what they're asking me to do."

Sands tilted his head to the side, his voice a smooth drawl as he asked, "Why not?"

Cam took a deep breath and looked directly into Sands' dark sunglasses. "Because I can't ruin you, Sands."

Sands' mind whispered _'I already am ruined,' _but he didn't voice the thought, letting Cam continue.

"I can't terminate you. If I were to take you back to Langley, it would be the same as shooting you right here. Damn it Jeff, we learned all this tradecraft spook shit together eleven years ago and you know what? I admit it. You were right. You were right about the Company, and you were right about the rules. Okay, so I don't agree with all the shit you pull and the things you do, but I finally understand what you were trying to tell me all those years ago. It's taken me eleven years Jeff, to figure out what you already knew at the Farm."

Somewhat surprised by Cam's admission, Sands let out his own deep breath. He sat down on the bed, sinking into the mattress. His whole body ached and his headache refused to let up. _'Goddamn, I'm fucking tired of all this.'_

In an exhausted motion, Sands removed his sunglasses.

He didn't care anymore. He didn't fucking care.

"A lot of good that did me," Sands stated flatly.

Removing his sunglasses was the only admission of faith in Cam that he would ever outwardly give, and deep down they both knew it.

No, he didn't trust Cam. He didn't think he was capable of trusting anyone, anymore. Still, Cam really had no reason to lie. He'd had numerous occasions to turn on him, to kill him… hell, he could have left him to die that day in Culiacan. Yet at every opportunity Cam stood stubbornly by his side. Why? Because they'd both trained together and worked together? Was that it? Was it some fucked up feeling of loyalty on Cam's part?

"You were right Sands. They don't give a shit. They don't care. And commandment eleven… it is all that matters."

Sands let out a small laugh, rolling his head back and popping his stiff neck. "You don't even remember what commandment eleven is. I swear Cam, you'd have a photographic memory if you weren't out of film."

Cam shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Yeah, well, the last time you told me, I actually remembered."

Sands clapped a hand to his chest in mock shock.

"We won't get caught. And we'll uncover Martin, and whoever else is involved, for the traitors they are."

"And if we have to rig the game to do it?"

Cam paused for only a moment, then answered, "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"Why should you care what happens to me?" Sands asked. He couldn't understand Cam, and why he'd come here. Cam had already told him the operation was too risky for his reputation. "Why? You said before that you knew me. Well Cam, I know you. Following rules and performing your duty to the Company is numero uno on your list of priorities."

"Not anymore," Cam said solemnly, while thinking, _'I already made that mistake.'_

Sands' eyebrows rose.

"You saved my life during that whole Vienna fiasco, and it's time I returned the favor," Cam continued.

Sands was dumbfounded that Cam would bring that past operation into the conversation, but then Cam had surprised him more than once already. Shaking his head he replied, "His skull just happened to get in the way of my bullet. Besides, that was a long time ago."

"Doesn't matter," Cam replied without hesitation.

Sands didn't respond right away. He wasn't used to someone being on his side, and he couldn't truly believe that that was the case now. He spun the gun in his hand absentmindedly. "You already returned that favor by exfiltrating me on the Day of the Dead."

"But the job isn't finished yet, is it?"

Sands rubbed his hands over his face a few times before massaging his temples. He was so frustrated he could scream. God, how he wanted to just believe Cam. He was far too exhausted not to believe him. Distrust took energy, and as a whole, both emotionally and physically, he was spent. But still that distrusting voice in the back of his mind chanted, '_Don't trust him, don't trust him, don't trust him,'_ over and over again, giving him no peace. _'I can't think about this right now. I just can't.'_

"We need to take care of El before he wakes up. Give me a hand dragging his carcass into the bathroom. We'll lock him in somehow, and he can cool his spur in there for a while," Sands said, as he nudged El experimentally with the toe of his shoe, at the same time as he returned his gun to its holster.

* * *

After locking El in the bathroom, Cam and Sands sat back down. 

"What are you going to do with him?" Cam asked.

"Use him," Sands replied shortly. He was fully aware that Cam wanted to know the details, but his brain didn't seem to want to work. He simply couldn't think, his mind still hung up on his argument with El. He'd always had a wicked temper, but his emotions were beginning to run away with him. He was slowly falling apart, losing control, and he knew it. He had to get his shit together, before it cost him his life.

Cam watched Sands as he seemed to struggle with keeping himself together. Of course he'd seen this coming. Sands had been given little chance to recover, with virtually no time to deal with everything that had happened. Sands had never been one to sit around, but he'd been forced on embark on a mission that he was mentally and physically far too stressed to deal with. It had only been a matter of time before it all caught up with him again. Only a matter of time before he became frustrated or bitter or angry.

Still, Cam knew no other person on this earth that would have made it this far, and he truly believed that Sands was fully capable of completing this mission, if he could manage to stay sane in the process.

Sands' voice interrupted his thoughts. "You must be one sick, crazy bastard, Cam, to have followed me here."

"Takes one to know one."

A weary smile quirked Sands' lips as he stood up. A serious nicotine craving taking hold, he reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, only to remember that he was fresh out. Cursing, he made a mental note to buy a new pack as soon as possible. As far as he was concerned, life without cigarettes wasn't worth living.

"What?" Cam asked, clueless as to what Sands was muttering about.

Sands waved off his question as he began thinking of what needed to be done, the fog in his mind slowly clearing. "Never mind. I want you to…" Sands trailed off as his hands searched one of the bedspreads. "Damn, where…" Quickly locating the notepad El had so kindly thrown in his direction, Sands walked over to Cam and held out a hand. "Got a pen?"

Cam grabbed a pen off the desk and handed it to him, wondering what Sands wanted to write down.

Placing the notepad on the desk, Sands jotted down a name, number and what he wanted, hoping it was readable. "Call this number and have them send over what I've written down," Sands said as he tore the top paper from the notepad and held it out to Cam.

Taking the paper, Cam could hardly miss the bullet hole in the center of it.

"Legible?" Sands asked when Cam remained silent.

Cam's gaze shifted to the oddly spaced but readable writing. "Oh… yeah, no problem there. Should I even ask why someone felt the need to terminate the notepad?"

"Your health would probably benefit from not asking."

Cam nodded absentmindedly as he read what Sands had asked for. The items seemed to be written down in catalogue number form, so he had no clue what they were. He did, however, see why Sands had to write it down. "What is this?" Cam asked, as he decided that one of these days, he was going to ask Sands how he remembered all of these numbers and names. The man's mind was like a Rolodex.

"All in good time, Cam. You'll find out soon enough. Tell them to charge it to the account of S. J. Allen and have them ship it overnight to this hotel. I'd do it myself, but I have another equally important call that needs to be made, and I need you to call them before they turn off their work phones for the evening."

"Alright."

"What time is it?"

Cam glanced at the clock. "Four forty-five."

"Better kick it into gear, Cam. They close in fifteen minutes. Got a room here?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Go there, make the call, and come back here when you're done."

"Will do," Cam said, as he left the room to make the call.

Deciding that the less time he had to think about his slipping control the better, Sands took out his cell phone, sat down and dialed a familiar number. His previous contact, Tom, had some serious explaining to do.

After two rings, he picked up. "Tom here."

"I have a bone to pick with you, _old pal_," Sands drawled, menace lacing his voice.

"Yeah? Well, make it quick."

"I always do. But today you're going to have to face my music, or your funky Broadway show will hit closing time. Are you my enraptured audience yet?"

"I'm listening."

"Well that's groovy. Because I have done deal after fucking deal with you. I'm quite a loyal customer of yours, if I do say so myself. When I contact you for something, I pay handsomely for your services, and in return I expect you to deliver quality and competence. You delivered neither, and because of this error of yours, I'm slightly irritated." Sands paused for a moment, letting the words sink in before continuing. "Now, my minor irritation may not seem like much now, but let's see how you dig this little scenario, Tom. You deal in a business that is highly… sensitive. Your reputation is everything. If word were to get out about the fuckmook you sent me, it would cause irreversible damage to your rather fine reputation. By the by, I do hope you've set aside a bit of extra cash for yourself… you know, for that rainy day. Because Tom, it's about to fucking pour." Sands' voice was measured and controlled, but Tom got the message loud and clear.

"Ok. Ok. Now hold up Sands. What and who are you talking about? You got your personal jet, and didn't bother to meet up with your driver so I…"

"What the fuck did you just say?" Sands interrupted, as a bad feeling made his stomach turn. "I met up with Jackson."

"Jackson? Who the hell is Jackson?

"Jackson wasn't the name of the man you sent over?"

"No. For one thing, I never sent a man. I sent a woman, and she reported to me that she never met up with…"

"Fuck!" Sands cursed, hanging up the phone. He'd heard all he needed to hear.

If Jackson didn't work for Tom, then he worked for an enemy… just who Jackson was working for was something he needed to find out immediately… before his enemy caught up with him.


	32. Riddles

**Chapter 32: Riddles**

'How to deal with Jackson?'

Sands sat in his hotel room pondering that exact thought. He believed that he had two options available to him. He could lead Jackson on and find out just who he worked for, or he could waste the rat and be done with it.

He greatly preferred the latter idea.

'It would be rehabilitative, good for my personal growth, give me great joy…'

Yeah, he was going to have the smoke the bastard.

Then again, it could be fun messing with Jackson for a while, come to think of it.

'Hell, why not both?'

Slipping his sunglasses back on, Sands smiled as a truly sinister plot came to mind. He seriously needed a little fun right now, a little distraction from his current problems, and if anyone had it coming, it was Jackson.

Hearing El begin to come to in the bathroom, Sands' smile widened. Enough of dancing around the matter of business; to hell with the games that they'd been playing with each other. El was going to see things his way, figuratively speaking of course, or he wasn't going to see anything at all.

There was a soft knock on the room door before it opened completely, and Cam's voice jarred Sands from his thoughts.

"Alright Sands. I have no idea what I just ordered, but I ordered it."

"Kooky."

"By the way, I broke the lock on your door here," Cam said, before closing it and listening to El shuffling around in the bathroom. "I think he's going to be grumpy."

Sands smirked and walked over to Cam, coming to stand by him in the entryway. "Might as well open the door. He'll just perform his best howler monkey impression if we don't. The idea of the hotel staff's attention isn't a hip prospect to me right now."

"Yeah, but what are…"

"Just open the door, Cam,' Sands interrupted.

Doing as he was ordered, Cam opened the door to the sight of El Mariachi leaning against the bathtub, groaning unhappily and rubbing the back of his head.

"Ah, sleeping beauty has awakened. El, really... must you make a habit of forcing me to render you unconscious every time we speak? It makes it a bit hard to move forward with this operation when you're constantly out cold." Sands' eyebrows rose as El began to spit out some rather colorful curses in Spanish. "Such language, El! You're corrupting my poor little virgin ears."

Despite his professional façade, Cam couldn't contain the snort of laughter that escaped at Sands' last comment.

Sands' gun was in his hand as he moved into the bathroom and crouched in front of El, who was still swearing under his breath. "Now it's time you and I got down to brass tacks, so shut the fuck up and listen to what I have to say. If you don't, I'll make Swiss cheese out of your Mariachi ass."

"Empty threats, Sands. You need me for something…"

"Correction, I **want** you for something. Your worth has decreased drastically since my partner's arrival, so it's in your best interests not to piss me off anymore than you already have or…" Sands trailed off before mouthing the word 'bang' and mimicking the action of shooting.

"What do you want?" El ground out.

Sands smiled nastily before finally giving El his answer. "I want you to break into the CIA's Mexico Headquarters, and steal some rather… sensitive documents."

"What?" El asked, bewildered. He was sure that he hadn't heard right.

"You heard me loud and clear. It's a shame really, you may not even have to kill anybody, and we both know there's no fun in that. All you have to do is scamper into headquarters, preferably undetected, develop a case of sticky fingers, and nab some critical documents for yours truly."

"Why me? Why not him?" El asked, pointing to Cam.

Unaware of El's gesture, Sands cocked his head. Bending down, he leaned close to El, much to the Mariachi's discomfort. Sands' drawl was slow and quiet, with a deliberately menacing undertone. "You don't seem to be catching my drift. Anyway you slice it… you owe me. I don't give a rat's ass whether you ever admit it or not. You are not here to ask me questions. You are here for one sole purpose, El. Do you know what that is?" Sands asked, not expecting an answer and not receiving one. "No? Well then, let me spell it out for you. You are here to please me, El. Nothing else on this earth matters. You are here to complete the assignment I've given you, and complete it with flying colors. If you don't, if you disappoint me once again…" Sands paused a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was ice. "…I'll blow you away."

Sands stood up, returning to stand by Cam in the doorway. He could practically feel El's eye's burning into his back. Facing El again, Sands continued. "You know, you're lucky I didn't just shoot you full of holes and bury you in your precious Paracho. You're equally lucky that my trigger finger hasn't twitched since then and caused a nasty accident. Next time, El, you won't be so lucky. I can guarantee it."

Sands returned to the main part of the room, with Cam following closely behind. El slowly pulled himself off the linoleum floor, his head pounding from Sands' blow.

"Like to go shopping, Cam?" Sands asked casually, when he heard Cam behind him, as if he'd already forgotten his spat with El.

As far as Sands was concerned, the next order of business was dealing with Jackson, and there was no time to lose.

"Does it matter?" Cam asked, knowing that he was going whether he liked it or not.

Sands smirked, grabbing the notepad off the desk and tossing it to Cam. A pen quickly followed the notepad, and Cam found himself smacked in the chest by both objects.

Groaning as they hit the floor, Cam picked them up as El walked into the room.

"You never could catch worth shit, Cam."

Cam rolled his eyes and sat on the end of the bed. "What am I shopping for?"

"Cigarettes," Sands said immediately.

Cam silently fought to withhold a retort about Sands' weakness for nicotine. He didn't feel like dying today. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, but I want to make sure you get a pack of cigarettes. Make that a couple packs. Bali Shag, if you can get them in this spit-wad of a country."

"Noted."

"Once you have the cigarettes… get corn syrup, two large bottles of water, a plastic salad bowl, corn starch, milk, white school glue, and food coloring; blue and red."

Cam raised an eyebrow as he finished writing down what Sands had asked for. "Am I allowed to ask what we're going to make?"

Sands smiled maliciously. "A little surprise for Jackson. Certain… betrayals on his part have come to my attention. He's a bad actor in this little play of ours." Walking over to his bag, Sands reached in and grabbed another 9mm clip and his cane, quickly tucking the latter away in his jeans' pocket. "He didn't play his part right, failed to hit his mark and follow the script. It's time he got the hook. I'm just the person to make certain that he exits stage left, and ensure that he goes out with a bang before his final curtain call."

Cam shook his head, certain that Sands' lingo had to be of his own invention. Dreading whatever twisted plot Sands undoubtedly had cooking in his perverted mind, he stood and made to exit, shooting a warning glare in El's direction as he did so. "Alright, I'll be back in a few," Cam said, opening the door.

"Don't forget the cigarettes!" Sands called after him, hearing Cam grumble something unintelligible in response on his way out.

As soon as the door closed, Sands turned towards El. "You come with me. There's a certain vehicle that needs inspecting." Making sure the cardkey was in his pocket, Sands opened the room's door and gestured for El to go first.

They walked through the hotel and out the front doors in silence, before El finally asked, "What do you want me here for?"

"Well, I can't _recognize _the car that we arrived in, now can I?"

El cleared his throat uncomfortably before making his way towards the car. "This is the one," El said, when they stopped in front of the car they'd arrived in.

Immediately Sands faced El and shooed him away. "Buzz off, little fly," Sands said, returning his attention to the car and running a hand along the top.

"But…"

"I said go. I'll expect you to be in our room when I'm finished here."

"And just what do you have to do here?"

"Sniff out a rat. Now buzz off."

El left with a grunt, and Sands waited until his footsteps were out of earshot before settling to the task at hand. Walking to the back of the car, Sands knelt down and felt along the back bumper, around the muffler and anywhere underneath the car within arm's reach. Not finding what he suspected was traveling with them, he made his way to the front of the car. Searching beneath the front bumper he quickly found what he'd been looking for.

With a quick twist and pull, the object popped free, and Sands stood upright again with it in his grasp. Turning the device in his hands and feeling it out, he came to the conclusion that it was indeed what he'd suspected.

A tracking device.

As he felt out the familiar shell and engraved numbers on the side, he made another disturbing discovery.

'Fucking CIA issue. Shit.'

The serial number on a Company device had its own code, and there was no mistaking this one. Having used the same kind in his own operations, Sands was familiar with this type of tracker. He opened the back and removed the battery. Unfortunately, it had already given away his position, but he opted not to destroy it.

"I may just decide to use this little bug against you sons of bitches," Sands said under his breath, pocketing the small tracker. He turned around quickly when he heard footsteps approaching.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," a female voice said.

Sands smirked, guard on full alert as he answered, "Why Miss 221, don't tell me that I'm now loitering in front of your car."

"As a matter of fact, you are. It's to your left. I've been meaning to ask your name, seeing as we keep bumping into each other."

Sands sighed, not having the time nor the patience to deal with the woman at the moment. He pushed past her, disregarding her question, and planning on returning to his room in time to make some much needed preparations. Recalling the way he'd come, he retraced his steps back to the hotel entrance, and groaned inwardly when he heard her following. Intent on ignoring her, she didn't gain his full attention until she called out his name in a hushed undertone so that only he could hear. "Sands?"

Sands' steps halted abruptly, and he turned on his heel to face her as she quickly caught up to him.

"Why, I thought you didn't know my name, Sugar," Sands said in a slow drawl, as warning bells sounded in his mind. He grabbed hold of her arm roughly and she yelped as he yanked her closer.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as a gun dug into her ribs.

Leaning in close to her ear, he asked in a whisper, "Who do you work for?"

Taking a deep breath, she tried to remain calm and keep her voice steady while she answered. "Tom. I work for Tom. I can explain…"

Sands cocked his head to the side before tucking his gun back out of sight. His grip on her upper arm remained painfully firm as they walked through the hotel lobby.

"Let's make this a private performance, in my room," Sands said, walking her towards their destination.

When they arrived at his room, Sands opened the door. "Ladies first," he said, shoving her through the doorway, before he followed her in, and closed the door behind them.

He listened for El, but could hear no signs of his presence as he stepped further into the room, and seized his 9mm from its holster. "I don't trust you, Sugar, nothing personal."

While cocking the gun and aiming it at her, he reached into his pocket and grabbed his cell phone. "I think I'll give good ol' Tom a jingle. You'd better hope that you check out darlin', because if you don't you'll be pushin' up daises from a pine box."

Eyes fixed on the man in front of her, she tried to compose herself as she replied steadily, "I'll check out." While he dialed, she took a moment to study him. Wearing a tacky novelty T-shirt and jeans, with dark shades covering his eyes, he hardly looked like an Officer for the CIA. Yet, she'd never dealt with a CIA employee face-to-face before, so she conceded that she probably wasn't the best judge of appearances. Still, if she'd been forced to guess his occupation, she would have thought him a shady Hollywood talent scout. It led her to believe that he could be acting. This Sands was either blind, or playing the part very well. Either way, he was not a man to be crossed, that much was clear.

Sands dialed and let the phone ring several times. Tom picked up on the fifth ring and Sands wasted no time in getting down to business.

"Tom. I've got a woman here who claims to be my real driver. What's the name of the driver you sent over?" Sands paused a moment, before moving the cell away from his ear. "What's your name, Sugar-buns?"

"Ava Hunter."

"Kudos to you, Sugar. You've passed the first test. Got a cell phone on you?"

"Yeah."

"Groovy. Tom?" Sands asked, speaking back into the phone. "Give the lady you sent over a call." Sands snapped the cell phone shut. "If that phone of yours rings, I'll listen to what you have to say. If not…" Sands trailed off, waving his gun. "I wouldn't want to be you."

Half a minute passed without a sound and Sands clicked his tongue repeatedly. "I don't hear it ringing."

Taking her phone out of her jacket, she checked to make sure it was on. "It will." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a tune played from her phone. Heaving a mental sigh of relief, she answered with a curt, "Yeah?"

"Ava?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, it's me."

"What the hell is going on? Is Sands there?"

"Yup. He's practicing his aim on me right now but… hey!" She looked up at Sands as he roughly pulled the cell phone away from her.

"It's her?" he asked Tom.

"It's her. What…"

Hanging up, Sands tossed the phone back to her. "Spill the beans, Sugar. I'll give you five minutes to explain how you were lucky enough to bump into me here, and how you fucked up your assignment."

"Well, it…" she began, only to be quickly interrupted.

"You tell me it's a coincidence and your five minutes are history... and incidentally, so are you."

Ava cleared her throat in discomfort. In her line of work she'd met her fair share of intimidating men, but Sands had to be on top of that list. It was his unwavering calmness that unnerved her, and the air of detachment that laced his tone as he threatened her life seemingly as easily as he breathed. It reminded her of an old saying, that one can never judge a book by it's cover, and the thought that he knew exactly what he was doing by dressing the way he did quickly entered her mind.

'This man is a true professional, and someone that I definitely don't want to get on the wrong side of…'

"I wouldn't dream of it," Ava said, sitting down slowly on the edge of the nearest bed. "I was waiting for you at the airport, as per my instructions. Tom e-mailed me a picture of you, so I knew what you looked like. After waiting a few minutes, I saw you come out, but before I could approach you someone else beat me to it."

"Jackson," Sands said.

"If that's the man who's been pretending to be your driver, then yes. I saw him take your bag, and you get into his car…"

"Why didn't you say something to me? Approach me? You had the time," Sands cut in, sitting down on the desk chair across from her. He kept the gun trained on her, but flicked the safety back on and she took it as a sign that he was listening.

She leaned towards him, hoping to come off sincere. "Officer Sands, you have to understand…" She paused, her tone deadly serious when she continued. "I can hold my own if it comes down to it, but I'm no trained officer or agent. I'm a simple stringer who does the occasional odd job for Tom here and there for some extra cash. I didn't know if this Jackson guy had other people with him or not, whether he was armed or not… I can't go up against a whole group of trained gunmen. I'm not Wonder Woman."

Sands snickered, and she hoped that he believed what she was telling him.

"So I opted to follow you and Jackson, feel things out, and wait until I could catch you when no one else could be listening."

"If that is the case, a matter which still remains to be proved, you're smarter than the average stringer. How about our meeting in the hall? I don't recall hearing a peep from you about all this, yet you had the chance to tell me."

"I had just seen Jackson and another man enter the room next to mine. Being so close to the room, I didn't want to risk either of them overhearing. That and…" She bit her lip, knowing that what she was about to bring up was most likely a sore spot, if he wasn't faking his disability. "If you'll forgive me, Officer, I was thrown off guard. Tom didn't tell me that…" She trailed off a moment, studying his reaction or lack thereof, before asking, "Does he know?"

"That I'm blind?" Sands asked, his voice devoid of emotion as he thought about the recent turn of events, and the woman in front of him. "No. I prefer that he's… kept in the dark, so to speak."

Ava looked at him curiously. She couldn't read anything from his reaction. Not from his voice, nor his expression. Again she was reminded that this man was no amateur. "Why?"

"Because, Sugar… Jackson knew all these nifty little details that could only have been obtained in one of three ways." Sands held up a finger, counting the options as he recited them. "Behind door number one we have Tom ratting me out. I open up door number two, and discover wiretaps on Tom's phone line. What's behind door number three you may ask? Well, behind that door is a potentially fatal option for you… because behind it, you are working with Jackson."

"I'm not working for that slime!" Ava protested immediately.

Sands stood and tilted his head as he drawled, "But how do I know for sure?"

Searching for an answer, she finally had to admit, "I don't know."

Sands walked over and sat down beside her, draping an arm over her shoulders, gun still in hand. "If you're indeed telling the truth, Sugar, then I think it'd be wise if you took my advice to heart." He stopped speaking briefly, running the barrel of the gun along her jaw line gently. When he felt her shiver, he knew she understood the danger in the motion.

"And what advice is that?" she asked, her voice only betraying her true fear ever so slightly.

When Sands spoke again, his voice was no longer its typical bored drawl, but cold and harsh. "Get the fuck out of this room, get the fuck out of this town, and get the fuck out of Mexico."


	33. Dead Men Tell No Tales

**Chapter 33: Dead Men Tell No Tales**

Sands' arm slipped off Ava's shoulder. Standing up he made his way to the door. "Trust me, Sugar. You don't want to be here when things get messy… and they will get messy."

Ava sat on the edge of the bed, nonplussed, as Sands opened the door and ushered her out. She didn't really know what to do, but she didn't want to abandon her job. She'd been paid to do something, and it wasn't her style to just up and leave. After all, she could still be useful.

Walking over to the doorway, she didn't do as he said, but gently closed the door to give them privacy once again. She was surprised, though, by his quick reaction, which was to press the muzzle of his gun against her forehead.

"In case it wasn't clear as crystal, that wasn't a request," he said, his voice neutral.

Backing into the wall behind her in an attempt to put as much distance between her and the gun as possible, Ava came to the conclusion that the best way to gain this man's respect was to not be intimidated by him. _'Well, here goes nothing.'_

"I've met men like you before. Do anything for the goal. Anything for the job. Ice hard professional. Excellent at what you do I'm sure… but you're nobody without your title, _Officer_ Sands. Nobody."

Sands didn't react instantly, and that was how she knew she'd managed to surprise him. However, it didn't take more than a few seconds for him to recollect himself.

"You know what they say. Nobody's perfect," Sands drawled, closing the gap between them. Pressing the gun underneath her jaw, he leant in close, speaking softly in her ear. "…therefore, I am perfect." Inhaling deeply, he tilted his head. "That's lovely perfume, but must you marinate yourself in it?" Turning her so that she was facing him, he continued. "Your rudimentary mind games just won't work with me, Sugar. You're looking at a pro."

"You're just a ray of sunshine, Officer," Ava said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "It's not my fault that Jackson picked you up."

"I didn't say it was your fault. I said I blame you for it." Sands lowered his gun, and returned it to his holster.

"Aren't you going to shoot me?" she asked, moving away from the wall, fully aware of the tightrope she was walking.

"I'm sure it's only a matter of time. The night's still young. You in a rush?"

She resisted the urge to heave a large sigh of relief, knowing that she'd just taken a big gamble. "And what about the job I was hired to do?"

Sands cocked an eyebrow, keeping a hand on the butt of his gun. "Consider yourself terminated from my employ."

Opening her mouth to answer, she was interrupted by the door opening, causing them both to step back. Sands' focus immediately shifted from her to the doorframe.

"What's going on here?" Cam asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, his tone suggestive.

Sands gave him an innocent look before replying. "Only a possible homicide."

"So sorry to interrupt." Cam stepped into the room, closing the door. "I got what you wanted, Sands," he said, setting the bags down on the desk.

"I told you to go, Ava," Sands drawled, holding the door open for her. His tone left little room for argument.

Refusing to leave without a fight, she continued. "Officer Sands, I take my work very seriously. When someone hires me to do a job, I do it."

"That's very honorable of you, but I truly don't give a flying fuck," Sands smirked. "Ego te dimitto, Sugar."

"What is that? Latin?" she asked, and his head rolled back, as if he was pleading to a higher power.

"Get out of here before I shoot you."

Cam gave Ava an evaluating look, before turning back to Sands and asking, "Who's she?"

Heaving an irritated sigh, Sands closed the door before answering. He wasn't going to run the risk of anyone eavesdropping. "My real driver."

"I'm Ava Hunter. Officer Sands' contact, Tom, sent me," Ava interjected, hoping that the other man would be more hospitable.

"Your real driver?" Cam repeated to Sands, confusion written on his face. "Then… why are you giving her the boot?"

Sands could barely contain his incredulous expression at the question. "She's hardly reliable."

Cam's gaze returned to Ava, and their eyes met. Cam looked her over before asking, "If Jackson isn't your real driver, then who is he working for?"

Sands arched an eyebrow. "Not in front of the lady, Eric."

Cam eyed Ava once more, then shrugged his shoulders. "Your call, Jeff. It doesn't matter to me, but you never know when we might need an extra hand."

'Or extra eyes…' Shaking his head slightly, Sands suddenly remembered what he'd sent Cam for. "You get my cigarettes?"

Cam rolled his eyes as he searched a bag, retrieving one of the packs he'd bought. "Not your brand, but I figured it would do," he said, removing the plastic wrapping and handing the pack over.

Sands quickly lit up and inhaled deeply, feeling himself calm down almost immediately as his tense muscles began to relax. As smoke filtered out through his nose, the thought that Ava might have a use after all entered his mind. It occurred to him, that like El, Ava could act as insurance if the Company tried to prosecute him before, or even after, he proved his case.

"Alright, Sugar… tell you what. You scurry back to your room and chill. I'll swing by later to discuss things in further detail. But let me give you fair warning." Sands moved closer to Ava before continuing, his voice smooth as silk. "You decide to take this job, and there is no going back. My first advice to you still goes, and if you have any brains in that pretty little head of yours, you'll get the fuck out of here and you won't be in room 221 when I decide to mosey on over there." A smirk twisted Sands lips. "Now… get the fuck out of here. I won't say it again."

"I'll be in my room, Officer Sands," she said earnestly. Staring intently at the officer in front of her, she headed slowly out the door.

"Die dulci fruere," Sands said with an unenthusiastic wave of his hand, kicking the door closed with his foot as she left.As soon as the door shut, he walked over to the desk and began rummaging through the bags that Cam had brought in, forgetting about the woman in a matter of seconds.

"So, what are we making?" Cam asked, looking over Sands' shoulder as he began guesstimating the amount of milk needed, pouring it into the plastic bowl Cam had bought.

Smiling mischievously, Sands answered, "Witches' brew, Cam. A little eye of newt, couple of crow's feet, dash of arsenic, and voila! Jackson's cold dead body will appear before our very eyes… or your very eyes anyway. Cornstarch?"

Cam stood there, nonplussed. "Corn starch? Oh!" He fished around in a couple of bags before coming up with the cornstarch and handing it to Sands. "You know that what you just said tells me precisely nothing, right?"

"You bet."

As Sands continued to mix the ingredients together, just what he was making suddenly dawned on Cam. He smiled and shot Sands a sly look.

Sands dipped a finger into the mixture, testing its consistency. Searching in the bags, Sands found the glue and squeezed it into the mix.

"Glue?" Cam asked.

Sands nodded in confirmation. "Makes it stick," he explained, cigarette dangling from his lips as he spoke.

"You're getting ash in the bowl," Cam informed him.

"It'll give the mix more texture," Sands said, shrugging it off.

"So who is Jackson working for?"

"The Company," Sands answered, taking the tracking device he'd found earlier out of his pocket and tossing it to Cam.

Cam caught it, scrutinizing the device closely.

"I do believe that's still your specialty, is it not?" Sands drawled, stirring the ingredients together.

"You know it is," Cam said absentmindedly, inspecting the tracker. While Sands was a bang-and-burn officer at heart and by training, Cam had taken a different direction, specializing in electronic surveillance and photography. "It's definitely a Company device. Not an old one either. This is the most common tracker in use, released late last year. Where'd you find it?"

"Hitching a ride on Jackson's car," Sands replied, stubbing his dead cigarette out on the desk. "Fallaces sunt rerum species."

Deciding to ignore the Latin, Cam continued. "I think I'm getting the picture now. But the Company already sent me to find you. Why would they send Jackson too? Why go to the trouble of adding a tracker and keeping up with all these false pretenses when he could have just brought you in?"

Sands turned towards Cam, pointing a finger coated in thick white goop at him. "That's the theme of tonight's show."

Sands smirked and brought the finger to his lips. "But don't tell. It's a surprise. Besides…" Sands stuck the finger in his mouth, and Cam made a face, knowing that the stuff had to taste nasty, considering the ingredients in it. "… it'd be a cold day in hell before that fuckwad could have taken me back to the States."

Not swallowing, Sands tested the thickness of the mixture. After a couple of seconds he rolled his tongue over his front teeth, but showed no other outward signs of its bitter taste. Instead, he walked straight into the bathroom.

"Taste good?" Cam asked in amusement, as he heard Sands spit into the sink and run the water for a few seconds.

Sands didn't answer until he was back in the room, standing beside Cam. "Tastes like shit," he said matter-of-factly. Walking back over to the desk, Sands smirked. "Which means it's perfect. Now for the final touch, which you'll have to add… the food coloring."

Cam did so, trying to match a color he'd seen before. It wasn't a hard color to remember. In fact, he was quite sure that it would be etched into his mind until the day he died.

Sands grabbed a water bottle and returned to the bathroom. Twisting off the cap, he took a swig, then poured the rest of the water into the sink, bringing the empty bottle back into the room.

"Got it?" Sands asked.

"Yeah. Where'd you learn to make this anyway? The Farm?"

Frowning slightly, Sands didn't answer. His hand searched the desk, until it made contact with the notepad. He tore off a piece of paper, took the bowl from Cam, and went back into the bathroom.

'Oh hell,' Cam thought, knowing he'd just stuck his foot in his mouth. Sands' reaction had told Cam that he already knew exactly who'd taught Sands. A painfully obvious answer that he should have thought of before opening his mouth.

Sands sighed as he set the bowl down by the sink, wishing that Cam hadn't asked that question. It brought back memories that he didn't want to remember, and thoughts that he'd rather not have.

Rolling up the piece of paper, he stuck one end in the plastic water bottle, and let the other end naturally expand out, creating a makeshift funnel. Grabbing the bowl, he began slowly pouring the thick mixture, transferring it from the bowl to the bottle.

When the bottle was full Sands twisted on the cap and cleaned up.

Walking back into the entryway, Sands dug into his bag and brought out an unusual looking black gun. It wasn't very large, and was almost all barrel, with a firing lever instead of a trigger.

"Jesus, Sands! Is that what I think it is?" Cam asked when he caught sight of the gun.

"Since my telepathic powers seem to come and go as they please, I'll just say yes."

"How the hell do you still have one of those? Wasn't the Company forced to destroy that model five years ago when they started the big crackdown?"

Sands inclined his head, and Cam could imagine the devilish twinkle that would have been in his eyes. "Yes, and the answer is simple. I was sent out on an assignment with this gun seven years ago. When I returned to the States, I told the Company that I had to destroy the gun because it was in jeopardy of being discovered."

"But you just kept it instead… just how much Company stuff have you jacked over the years?"

Sands smiled wickedly, a clear capsule of light yellow liquid between his fingertips. He loaded it into the gun, and tucked the gun into his hip holster. The weapon was a dangerous one, and if it went off before he intended, he'd be dead… end of story.

"The Company doesn't give those to just any officer…" Cam continued

Next Sands retrieved a brown sports coat, folded up in the bottom of his bag. Slipping it on to conceal the gun at his hip, he faced Cam and cocked an eyebrow, finishing the sentence. "Only to their trained assassins."

Cam said nothing, not knowing what to say. Sands tucked the water bottle into an inside pocket of his jacket. "Of course officially we don't exist anymore, so mum's the word," Sands continued easily.

Cam sighed heavily before replying, "Well, I always did wonder what that last specialty of yours was."

Sands slipped off his sunglasses, and searched around in the bag for his extra pair. Making the switch, Sands slipped on the cheaper sunglasses. There was no sense in ruining a good pair of sunglasses, after all. "Where did El run off to, anyway?"

"Beats me. Maybe he's eating dinner."

"That better be all he's doing," Sands said offhandedly. Retrieving a pair of black leather gloves and a small box from the bag, he slipped on the gloves and opened the box. Taking out a small white pill, he popped it in his mouth and swallowed it dry, then put the little box in his pocket.

"What was that?"

"Sodium thiosulfate," Sands answered, all suited up and ready to go. "Here's what I want you to do. I'm going to ask Jackson to go down to the car and get my suitcase. I want you to stall him for… oh, let's just say twenty minutes."

"I don't know what he looks like."

"Now, Cam, it would be rude of me not to formally introduce the two of you."

"Any specific way you want me to stall him?"

Sands raised his eyebrows. "You're asking me? I do believe you're the people person, out of the two of us. I'm sure you'll think of a way." Walking to the door, Sands turned and waited for Cam to join him. "Just don't arouse his suspicion."

Cam made his way over to Sands, but when Sands began to turn the knob, Cam stopped him. "You just make sure you watch your back, Jeff."

"It's just a little game of Cowboys and Indians, Cam. Don't wig out," Sands said, calm as ever as he lit another cigarette.

"Yeah, but who knows how many Indians may be outside that door."

Sands exhaled a perfect ring of smoke, unfazed by Cam's words of caution. "I'll be sure to shoot first, shoot later, shoot again, then, when everyone's dead, I'll try and ask a question or two."

Cam smirked, reminded of the old days when they were partners in the field. "I thought you'd learned that dead men can't tell you anything by now?"

Sands grinned and opened the door. "That's where you're wrong."

* * *

After Sands had introduced the two of them, and ordered Jackson to promptly bring him his suitcase, they'd left Sands in Jackson's room, while they collected the remaining luggage from the car. After picking up the rest of the bags, Cam had taken Jackson aside, leading him into the dining area. 

"How loyal are you to Sands?" Cam had whispered conspiratorially to Jackson after pulling him aside.

Cam got his answer without much effort. The answer was, Jackson wasn't loyal at all.

During their chat, Jackson hadn't mentioned who he was working for or what he was up to. Cam kept to his word and didn't press for any information, to avoid any suspicion on Jackson' part.

When they returned to the second floor, they parted ways. Cam returned to Sands' room, deciding to wait for him.

* * *

After Cam went into Sands' room, Jackson set down the two suitcases he carried and knocked on the door. Since he'd left Sands there, Jackson figured he'd still be waiting. 

After several seconds and no sounds of movement within the room, Jackson tried again, and again there was no answer. Figuring that Sands had returned to his room after the long wait, Jackson took the keycard out of his pocket and opened the door.

Setting one foot inside, he dropped off his bag before walking down the hall with Sands' suitcase. Knocking on the officer's door, it was immediately answered by Cam.

Jackson quickly shoved the suitcase into Cam's hands. "Tell Sands that I don't want to be bugged by him for the rest of the night."

"Well, I'll tell him when he gets back."

"He's not here?"

"No," Cam answered, setting the suitcase down in the entryway by Sands' other bag.

Curious, Jackson wondered where Sands could be. Coming to the conclusion that he really didn't care, he shrugged. "I'll see you two in the morning."

Returning back to his room, Jackson made a quick stop in the bathroom before grabbing his suitcase from the entryway and carrying it into the room. Setting it down on top of the small table by the window, he popped it open and grabbed a manila folder out of the top flap.

Turning around, he quickly froze in horror at the sight that greeted him. The folder in his hands dropped to the floor forgotten, and his jaw fell slack.

He took a small, shaky step towards the gruesome sight, his breath catching in his throat. He'd never been able to stomach the sight of blood… and there was a lot of blood.

"Fuck," Jackson swore under his breath. After a couple more steps towards the body, he decided that getting any closer wasn't necessary.

Taking his cell phone out of his pocket, Jackson dialed a number with shaky hands. The line on the other end was picked up after the first ring.

Jackson took a deep breath. "Yeah. I have some news to report about Officer Sands. No… no, that won't be necessary after all. He's dead."

Looking back at Sands' body, Jackson shivered involuntarily. Blood coated his T-shirt, and had soaked through part of his jacket as well. He lay at an odd angle on the bed… but worst of all was the horrendous sight of Sands' face.

Gone were the sunglasses that had always been there since he'd met the officer, but there was something else vital missing as well; his eyes. Instead, all that was there were empty sockets, recent wounds oozing dark crimson blood down his face.

Voice shaking, Jackson spoke into the phone again. "Yes, I'm sure. Sands won't be a problem anymore."


	34. The Price

**Chapter 34: The Price**

Horrified, Jackson stared at Sands' body in disgust, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from the gory sight as he stood there, rooted in place.

Snapping his cell phone shut, he slipped it into his pocket as he moved closer to the body. Sands was still… and bloody. Very, very bloody.

"What the hell happened?" Jackson breathed, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. He'd only taken around half an hour to get the bags, and talk with Cameron. Whoever did this, did it very quickly.

As he found himself standing beside Sands' unmoving form on the bed, he realized just how much of a problem this could prove to be for him.

What if someone found Sands in this room, a room registered in his name? There would be an investigation of course. Where that would lead… well, he didn't even want to think about that.

'Is someone trying to frame me?' he thought, quickly becoming worried. Noticing the broken sunglasses lying at his feet, he picked them up curiously as a thought occurred to him. _'Sands never took off his sunglasses when I was around…'_

he thought, quickly becoming worried. Noticing the broken sunglasses lying at his feet, he picked them up curiously as a thought occurred to him. 

Leaning down close to the body to see the damage that had been done, Jackson noticed that Sands' dead body was, in fact, breathing, just as the barrel of a gun, seemingly produced out of thin air, was shoved into his face.

When Sands moved out of his death pose, his lips curved into an evil smile.

"Surprise, surprise, rat fuck."

Jackson took a hasty step back, wanting to put some distance between himself and Sands as quickly as possible. Sands looked like the angel of death, come to take him to hell. Come to think of it, that was very likely what Sands was planning on doing. "Jesus!" Jackson shrieked, unable to believe his eyes.

"No. Try again. Think more… south."

"What the hell happened to you?"

"I was betrayed by one of my own, Jackson… and it seems history wants to repeat itself. If that is the case, then I guess I'll just have to smoke your ass too."

"What- what is this?" Jackson stuttered, not fully comprehending what was going on. For all he knew, he could just be imagining this whole thing. Actually, he prayed that a temporary bout of insanity was the case, because if it wasn't… he was in some deep shit.

"Your performance was less than stellar, Jackson. It might have amused some of your audience, but I'm your toughest critic... and the only person that really matters, as it turns out. I hope you weren't planning on a thriving acting career." Sands cocked an eyebrow. "Did you really think you'd fooled me so easily? They must have at least briefed you on my history with the Company. I find your naivete hard to believe, even for someone with your lack of cerebral matter."

"Why? You were stupid enough to get caught on your last assignment," Jackson shot back, his anger fueled by Sands' insults.

"So were you," Sands countered calmly, knowing very well what Jackson was trying to do. Sands took a threatening step towards Jackson. "I wonder… do you have what it takes to stop me from blowing you away? Because I don't think you do."

"Better to die, than live like you."

Sands fought to keep his face neutral. "Never miss a good chance to shut the hell up, Jackson."

"You plan to kill me?"

"Well, naturally. However, how you die will depend on your answers."

Jackson wrinkled his brow in confusion. "You won't kill me if I cooperate?"

Sands smirked. "That's a little clichéd, don't you think? Let's just go with the flow. See what happens." Swiftly closing the gap between them, Sands brought the heel of his boot down on Jackson's injured foot.

Doubling over in pain, Jackson bit back a cry of agony. He tried to shove Sands away, with little success.

Sands grabbed a chunk of Jackson's hair and jerked his head up roughly. "Do you have any idea what this is?" Sands asked, bringing the unusual gun into Jackson's view.

"A fucking gun," Jackson ground out, his mind racing as he tried to figure a way out of the dangerous situation he was in.

Sands let out a huff of disappointment. "This is much more than a 'fucking gun'." Sands' voice changed to a parental tone, as if he was talking to a child. "You see… if I pull the trigger of this gun it's hasta la vista, Tonto. This is a cyanide gas gun, and it's only given to the CIA's trained assassins." Sands paused a moment and tilted his head in query. "Did you know that about me? Did you know that was one of my specialties? Just _how_ familiar are you with my 201?"

"I never read it, they just told me…"

"What you needed to know?" Sands interrupted, his smirk quickly turning into laughter. "Classic. What did they tell you? That I went rogue? That I betrayed my country? That I was completely whacko? All of the above? Is Officer Sands the talk of the town?"

"They said you turned traitor, sold information to Barillo, and hoped to gain a profit from the Day of the Dead operation."

Sands sighed in mock dismay. "No imagination. No wonder I'm the best."

"Used to be."

Sands ground his heel further into Jackson's foot. "I'd make you pay for that, but I want everyone to think you died of… natural causes. Wouldn't do for them to find signs of a struggle on your corpse."

Sands unexpectedly felt the impact of Jackson's fist connect with his jaw, and he took a step back as he reeled from the punch, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "Whoa there Tonto, didn't think you had it in you," Sands commented, amusement lacing his tone. "This might just be fun at that."

Sands heard Jackson take off for the door, and didn't waste any time in going after him. Jackson, slowed down by his injured foot, didn't make it far before his feet were kicked out from underneath him. He went down on his stomach hard, the force knocking the wind out of him.

"Ouch. That sounded like it hurt," Sands commented emotionlessly at the sound of the heavy thud. "Truth is, Jackson, to the Company, there's no difference between you and me. We all pay a price eventually. I paid with my eyes, and you'll pay with your life. In the end, it'll all balance out," Sands said, his free hand gliding along an invisible line. Kneeling down, Sands asked, "You're working for Martin, am I right?"

"Why should I tell you? You're going to kill me anyway."

"You should have thought about that before you took this assignment. But…" Sands held up a finger. "I do have an incentive for you. If you cooperate, I promise that your death will be a snap. Otherwise… I won't worry about what they think when they find your body, because they won't find it. You'll be fish food at the bottom of the first lake I come across."

Jackson's breathing hitched as he pulled himself up off the floor, realizing the situation he was in. He saw little way out of it. If Sands was as crazy as the Company said he was… "If you kill me, they'll put you away for life."

Snickering, Sands shook his head. "They can't put me away for something they don't know anything about."

Desperate, Jackson gripped Sands' collar and pulled him close. "You'll never get away with it," Jackson ground out, as tried to snatch the gun from Sands' grip.

As they struggled for the weapon, Sands began to laugh. "What are you going to do, Jackson? Pull the trigger?"

"If you're going to kill me, why not?"

Sands shrugged. "You're dead if you do, dead if you don't, Jackson."

"At least I'll take you with me!" Jackson spat, trying to bluff his way out, and hoping that Sands wouldn't call him on it. Unfortunately for him, Sands didn't fold.

"You think so?" Sands asked. A feral grin played across his lips as he asked excitedly, "Why don't we find out?"

Sands positioned the gun between them, facing up. With their faces only inches apart, they would both be killed if the gun went off. Sands pried Jackson's fingers off his jacket with his free hand. Jackson's hand now in his own, he forced Jackson to grip the gun, index finger on the trigger. Sands' own gloved hand held Jackson's firmly in place so that he was unable to move his hand away.

"Pull the trigger, Jackson," Sands coaxed him, coolly. "I'm giving you the chance to die with dignity, taking your assassin with you."

"You're crazy Sands," Jackson said, a thought suddenly dawning on him. "You… you _want_ me to kill you, don't you?"

Sands tsk-tsked. "The real question is, are you man enough to pull the trigger?" he asked, not falling for Jackson's bait. "I don't think you are, Jackson. I think you're a coward through and through, and I'm willing to bet my life on it. Are you?"

"I'm no coward," Jackson said, without much conviction.

"And I'm giving you the chance to prove me wrong," Sands replied, seemingly unfazed by the life and death situation. "You were right, you know. It's not about how or when you die, it's about who you take with you when you go. So do it, Jackson. Prove it. Prove the great CIA Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands wrong… and pull the trigger," Sands continued to cajole, waiting for a reaction and receiving none.

Sands' trigger finger found itself on top of Jackson's, and he applied a little pressure, egging Jackson on. Jackson's sharp intake of breath made Sands smile. He was enjoying this game, but all good things had to come to an end sooner or later. "You can't do it, can you?" Leaning in a little, he said quietly, "Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes."

Jackson tried to pull away, but Sands kept him in place. "I can understand why you want to die, but I don't," Jackson said finally.

"And why, pray tell, would I want to die?" Sands asked, sarcasm lacing his tone. Of course, he knew what Jackson was thinking, but wasn't willing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd struck a cord. His defenses were up, and thinking about the insults Jackson was throwing his way was not something he was going to allow himself to do. "I'm a man who always gets what I want in the end, Jackson. If I wanted to be dead, I'd be dead." Sands appeared to study him for a moment. "You're not afraid to die, are you Jackson?"

"Just leave me the fuck alone… I don't want this worthless assignment to be the end of my life! Do you hear me?"

"Then tell me who you're working for. I don't even need you to tell me, really. It's all just added confirmation. Gaining extra intelligence is always worth the time. You work for Martin, yes?"

Jackson took a couple of deep breaths before answering in a whisper, "Yes."

Sands took a deep breath of his own in a futile attempt to calm his anger. Of course he'd known in his mind that it was Martin, but now… now he had proof from someone else against his ex-boss.

'How could the Company be so blind to such an obviously traitorous officer? How could I have been?'

Sands plastered on a fake smile. "You ever seen Broadway, Jackson?"

Jackson gave Sands a disbelieving look. "What the hell kind of question is that at a time like this?"

"Well, if you haven't seen Broadway at night… you haven't lived," Sands said seriously, an odd expression on his face. "It's just that it would be a shame for you to die without seeing it." Shrugging, Sands didn't linger on the subject. "You know, I knew all along that I was going to have to pull this trigger."

Smile still on his lips, Sands took a large breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

Jackson gasped in shock, and in doing so inhaled a good portion of the toxic fumes. His gasp quickly turned into a wheeze.

Sands was caught by surprise, however, when Jackson grabbed hold of him as he fell to the ground, dragging Sands down with him. As Jackson fought in vain to get air into his lungs, he refused to let Sands go. Unable to hold his breath any longer, Sands sucked in a breath of the poisonous air.

"Never fuck over a rat, Jackson, the rat always wins in the end," Sands told him, coughing in between words, as he pried Jackson's weakened hands off him. "Did you really think I'd come here without taking an antidote first? You'll be dying alone tonight."

Jackson began to convulse, the cyanide taking its toll. Sands got up, feeling short of breath himself, as he took shaky steps away from Jackson and the contaminated air.

'Shit, I was too close,' Sands thought, as the gun slipped out of his suddenly weak grasp. He could hear Jackson taking his last strangled breaths on the floor before stopping all together. Sands swayed on the spot, his own breathing labored. One hand reached into his pocket, as the other searched for something to support his weight. _'Too close, too close.'_

Sands thought, as the gun slipped out of his suddenly weak grasp. He could hear Jackson taking his last strangled breaths on the floor before stopping all together. Sands swayed on the spot, his own breathing labored. One hand reached into his pocket, as the other searched for something to support his weight. 

Finding the bed, he clumsily edged along it, towards where he assumed a window would be. Hands seeking out the furniture in front of him, he walked around a table and chair before reaching the far wall. Locating the window, he quickly pulled it open. A light breeze touched his skin as he opened the small box he'd put in his pocket earlier. Removing the ampoule of amyl nitrate, he broke it in half and inhaled as deeply as his struggling lungs would allow.

Then, he waited.

The sodium thiosulfate he'd taken a half hour before was an antidote that helped counteract the effects of the cyanide gas, and the reason he wasn't lying dead on the floor beside Jackson. However, having inhaled a fairly large amount of the poisonous vapors, the antitoxin ampoule he'd just sniffed would, he hoped, take care of his breathing, which was currently short and rapid.

Either his breathing would return to normal or he'd die of respiratory failure and find himself following Jackson to hell sooner than previously expected. It was hard to tell which way things would swing at the moment.

With his heartbeat seemingly as rapid as his breathing, Sands allowed himself to slide down to a seated position on the floor by the window. Knowing that the poison would rise in the air, the lower to the ground and closer to fresh air he was, the better.

'Well, that could have gone more smoothly," Sands thought wryly, as he sluggishly wiped away a few beads of sweat from his forehead. His gloved hands were clammy, and his whole body was weak. A few feeble coughs escaped his throat as his breathing began to gradually return to normal.

Starting to catch his breath, Sands removed his sports coat and tossed it as far away from himself as possible. The sports coat was quickly followed by his shirt, which he cut off with his pocketknife to avoid pulling it over his face and inhaling any cyanide that might still be clinging to the cloth.

After a couple of minutes, his strength slowly began to return and Sands reached up and pushed the window open the rest of the way. Waiting for the room to air out and the cyanide to evaporate and disperse, Sands performed the next action on his emergency procedure checklist; he lit up and took a drag.

A minute later, the door opened and Sands immediately froze, not knowing who it was.

"Sands?" Cam's voice asked, and Sands shot to his feet quickly. Evidently, it was a little too quickly, as he felt a sudden wave of nausea sweep over him. Leaning heavily against the table, Sands motioned for Cam to stop. "Stop!" he ordered, and he heard Cam's footsteps halt immediately.

"Close the door and lean against it. Don't come into the room any farther," Sands said, fighting the lingering dizziness he felt as he waved a hand around in the air, cigarette still held firmly between his fingers. "The air in here is a real bitch." Sands let out a small cough, accentuating his point. "Not too fresh. Dig?"

Kneeling down, he retrieved the ampoule he'd used and tossed it towards Cam. Cam caught it, unaware of what it was. "I sniff this?" he asked after a moment.

"Righty-o," Sands confirmed, taking another puff and sitting on the edge of the table, waiting for his dizziness to go away.

Cam took a large whiff of the ampoule, coughing as he asked, "Am I good?"

"Stay away from Jackson for a few minutes and you should be keen. The cyanide evaporates quickly."

Cam nodded, walking into the room and keeping as far away from Jackson's body as possible. "You alright? You look a little pale."

"I always thought pale was a good look for me," Sands drawled, still feeling a little nauseated. "I just finished dancing with the devil."

"Really? And what did you find out?"

"That I'm a much better dancer."

Sands heard Cam sit down in the chair next to where he was sitting. "About Jackson, Sands."

"He admitted he was working for Martin," Sands said as he flicked his cigarette ash out the window. He had no intention of leaving any evidence that he was in this room. "You wearing gloves, Cam?" Sands asked quickly.

"Yeah."

"Spiffy," Sands said, tossing his cigarette out the window and grinning. "I knew you had to remember something from the Farm. You ready for a little scavenger hunt?"

Cam chuckled as he stood. "You know it's what **I **live for."

"That I do." Thinking for a moment, Sands walked over and began searching Jackson's body. He heard Cam open a desk drawer and shuffle through some papers. Finding Jackson's cell, Sands pocketed it for further inspection later. "Is there anything on the floor?" Sands asked. "I thought I heard him drop something."

Cam glanced down at the carpet and spotted the envelope. "It's a manila envelope," Cam confirmed as he picked it up and opened it.

Sands stepped back from Jackson, and turned his attention to the bed, sticking a probing hand underneath the mattress.

As Cam removed some documents from the envelope, he looked up at Sands and commented, "You're not going to find anything under the mattress. That's far too obvious."

Sands smirked and stood, moving to inspect the other side of the bed. "You may know your clandestine surveillance and secret entry, but I know my psychology."

As Sands continued to search under the mattress, Cam unfolded the papers he found in the envelope. "Holy shit," Cam swore as he realized what he was looking at.

Sands looked towards Cam at the exclamation, and Cam started for a second at the sight of him without his sunglasses. He had no idea why it suddenly unnerved him, when he'd walked in moments earlier without any problem. The fake blood wasn't making it any easier. He supposed he'd never fully get used to it, and he suspected that Sands probably wouldn't either.

"What is it?" Sands asked anxiously.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he cleared his throat before answering. "False documents… it appears as though Jackson was going to deliver some forged records to a higher up at the Company," Cam said, rifling through them. "They have your signature on them, but…" Cam trailed off and shook his head. "It doesn't look right. Sands, you have your wallet?"

Taking his right hand out from under the mattress, he retrieved the wallet out of his pocket and tossed it to Cam before returning to his search.

Cam flipped open the leather and took out Sands' ID. Not lingering on the photo for too long, he started comparing the signatures on the documents with the one on the ID. He was trained to forge false documents, but also trained to catch them as well. It was clear to Cam that the ID and the false documents weren't signed by the same person. "Someone's trying to frame you in a big way," Cam said at last, reading some of the information the documents contained.

"Gee, Cam, you think?" Sands asked sarcastically, pulling a small object out from under the mattress. He recognized the feel, shape and size of it instantly, and flipped it between his fingers a few times as Cam spoke.

"These documents… they're a fake agreement between you and Armando Barillo. They even have Barillo's signature…" Cam trailed off as he mulled things over in his mind.

"Wow," Sands deadpanned. "In bed with Armando Barillo. What a horrifying thought."

Cam glanced at Sands, then back at the papers in his hands. Folding them up, he put them back in the envelope. Placing the envelope in his pocket, he went over to Jackson's suitcase and opened it.

Sands started searching the nightstand for any interesting items, and Cam smiled happily when he saw Sands' change of location. "See, I told you that you wouldn't find anything under the mattress."

Sands bit back a snicker as he opened the nightstand drawer. Finding nothing of interest, he shut it and walked over to Cam. "You have to get it right one of these days, Cam. It's the law of averages. However," Sands reached into his pocket and produced his find. "Today just isn't that day. Better luck next time."

Cam eyed it doubtfully before stating the obvious. "It's a silver dollar."

Sands shot Cam a trying look. "Really Cam, sometimes I wonder how you graduated from the Farm." With the coin between his fingertips, Sands pressed down on a point near the rim, and the top side of the coin popped up to reveal a secret compartment. "Silver dollar for your thoughts, Cam? Are there microdots inside?"

Cam took a step closer to get a better look inside the small compartment. "Well, I'll be damned. Microdots."

Sands closed the fake silver dollar. "This might just be the proof I need," Sands drawled, tucking the coin safely into his back pocket. "Then again, it might have nothing to do with me." Sands retrieved his pack of cigarettes, and tapped one out as Cam finished going through Jackson's suitcase.

"Everything has to do with you, Sands. I found that out a long time ago."

Sands nodded as he took a drag. "You're learning, Eric. You're learning."

* * *

  
Latin Translations

Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes. - It is foolish to fear that which you cannot avoid.

Spook Speak Terminology

**Microdots** – Tiny photographs of messages, secret documents, or other images which are so small that they can only be read with a special magnifying viewer. A full-page document can be as tiny as 1 mm in width.

**Cyanide Gas Gun** - This really did exist during the Cold War, but I'm taking some liberties when I say the CIA had them... since I don't know whether they did or not. It was known to exist in the KGB. The antidote, ampoule and effects/lethality of the cyanide gas were all researched and accurate to the best of my knowledge. Supposedly the cyanide gas is so quick that "the victim would feel short of breath and die before he could even open a window." The death would look as if the victim had a heart attack.


	35. You, Me And The Devil Makes Three

**Chapter 35 – You, Me And The Devil Makes Three**

Cam searched Jackson's suitcase thoroughly, not finding anything of interest. Closing it, he turned back to Sands. "Should we search the car?" he asked, watching Sands as he smoked, seemingly deep in thought.

Sands shook his head. "Later, Gator."

Cam studied Sands for a moment. He was still pale, and acting a little spacey. "You sure you're alright?"

"Si finis bonus est, totum bonum erit," Sands muttered, before saying to Cam, "I'm just fabulous." Tossing his second cigarette out the window, Sands continued. "Go back to my room and nab a change of clothes, and my good pair of sunglasses. I sense I'll attract some unwanted attention if I walk down the hall in my current state."

"Since when have you **not** wanted to be the center of attention?" Cam asked sarcastically.

"It's all about knowing when to take the spotlight."

Cam rolled his eyes, walking to the door. "I'll be right back."

After the door closed, Sands collapsed into the nearest chair, exhaustion taking hold. He felt like shit, and knew that he must have looked like it too. Although his breathing had returned to normal, the dizziness hadn't left him, and he was beginning to feel increasingly nauseous. To make matters worse, a burning sensation was starting to develop where his eyes once were, and he wasn't sure if the source of the irritation was the cyanide or the fake blood. It could have been either, or a combination of both. In any case, he needed to get off whatever was causing the stinging right away.

Dragging himself out of the chair and walking into the bathroom, Sands closed the door, grabbed a washcloth off the rack and turned on the water. He scrubbed the fake blood off his face, but avoided getting too close to his eyes. It was where he really needed to wash to get rid of the fake blood, but he still couldn't bring himself to touch the area.

'Over a month and I still can't do it,' he thought to himself in disgust, continuing to feel light-headed as his hand clutched the edge of the countertop. It was amazing how much worse the nausea was, and how much harder it was to fight off when he couldn't see what was around him to get his bearings. _'It's time I faced reality.'_

Sands dropped the washcloth in the sink, moving an uncertain hand towards where the irritation was. His hand faltered as it hovered above his left socket before finally running a finger along its edge. The burning sensation increased with the contact, along with his queasiness.

'My eyes should be here,' his mind screamed, still unable to fully grasp that two empty holes were there instead of his eyes._ 'I shouldn't be able to feel this. I shouldn't be able to run my hand along an empty eye socket, much less two. I shouldn't be able to feel the foreign, unnatural, alien, empty cavities that are there now.' _Of course they couldn't just blind him. The cartel wasn't that kind. They had to take his eyes completely, not just their use.

Still clinging to the countertop as if it was the only thing rooting him to the real world, he leaned over the sink as dry heaves racked his already exhausted body. His stomach had nothing to lose. The last time he'd eaten was on the flight over, and that hadn't been much. When the gagging subsided he cradled his face in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady himself as the counter supported all of his weight. _'What am I going to do when this is over?' _He still hadn't answered that question.__

"Where are you, Jeff?"

Startled by Cam's voice, he quickly pulled himself back together, opened the bathroom door and held a hand out for his clothes. Cam gave Sands what he'd asked for, and Sands set them down on the bathroom counter.

"Time to mop up, Cam," Sands announced, clearing his throat.

"You mean, time for me to help you clean up after your wet work."

"Well, it's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it," Sands said, handing him the used washcloth. He went over to the window and grabbed the gun. "Make sure you get the broken sunglasses, shirt, sports coat… and anything else that could suggest that someone else was here with Jackson while he croaked."

"Alright," Cam said, wasting no time in getting down to business. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he got out of Jackson's room, the better.

Quickly, Sands changed out of his jeans and donned the fresh clothing. He took the microdots and Jackson's cell phone out of his discarded pants, and tucked them into a pocket of the ones he was wearing, before joining Cam in the main room.

"Keycard?" Sands asked as he slipped on his sunglasses and tucked the gun in his pants.

"Yeah." Cam handed him the keycard, before grabbing the plastic bag out of the trashcan and shoving Sands' contaminated clothes in it.

"What room are you staying in?"

"303," Cam answered, tying the bag closed.

"Happy cleaning." Nodding once, Sands quickly slipped out of the room.

Cam looked up just as Sands exited, surprised by the other officer's willingness to let him clean everything up. It wasn't like Sands at all, and it made him wonder exactly what went on between Sands and Jackson… and how much the cyanide had affected him.

* * *

Back in his room, Sands went straight into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. Stripping down again, he turned on the shower and stepped in. The water was scalding hot, but he didn't care. Jackson's words were starting to creep into his brain. He couldn't stop them, much as he wanted to.

Grabbing the soap, Sands lathered up, trying to push it all out of his mind. He didn't need this. Not now. Not when everything was coming to a head.

Most of what Jackson said, he'd dismissed without thinking twice. Cheap shots, nothing more. Elementary psychology. But with one sentence Jackson had hit him where it hurt the most, and he'd known as soon as Jackson said the words that they'd come back to haunt him later.

'Better to die than to live like you.'

Sands ground his teeth, wishing he could kill Jackson all over again. Of course Jackson had to say something like that. It was an unpalatable reminder of his failure on the Day of the Dead. As if he didn't already have a bitter reminder every morning when he woke up and saw nothing.

Sands pounded the shower wall with his fist. Anger and revenge dominated his thoughts. He was furious with Barillo for taking his eyes, with Martin for standing by and doing nothing, with Jackson for being such a useless fuckwad and traitor, with El and his eternal stubbornness. But most surprisingly, he was angry with himself because he hadn't been able to stop any of it from happening. He'd temporarily lost his control, and it had cost him dearly.

After rinsing off, he stepped out of the shower and toweled himself dry.

He was no fool. He knew the cartel had let him walk out of that building in Mexico alive for one reason.

They'd let him walk away that day because it was much crueler to let him live. Death was the end. But this? It would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Wasn't it funny? Wasn't it fucking hilarious to take away the sight of a man who thrived on control? To make an independent man dependent on others? To ruin a career eleven years in the making in a quick half-hour?

Sands smiled bitterly. Ajedrez certainly thought so.

Damn her to hell.

Damn them all to hell.

Because he was having a hard time proving them wrong.

But he was going to prove them wrong… because he couldn't live with himself otherwise.

Sands ran his fingers through his hair, grasping clumps of it roughly as he urged these thoughts to go away.

"One day, Sands, your job and what you do… it'll break you, and I don't want to be there when that day comes," Cecilia said, standing by the front door, a suitcase in hand. Sands walked up to her, and she backed away slightly, no longer sure of what he was capable of after what she'd found out today.

He grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her close, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's my job, Cecelia. Just part of my fucking job. You knew I worked for the CIA, so why are you so surprised? Why is this so hard for you to take?"

She pulled away from his tight grip, opening the front door. "I can't live with a murderer."

As Sands opened the bathroom door, he listened for any signs of El or Cam. Hearing none, he went straight over to the phone.

"Room service?" he asked. "Yeah. Get me a large bottle of tequila. Room 202. Don't bother with the ice."

Hanging up the phone, he leaned against the headboard. _'Just get even and be done with it all. Move on and forget all this.'_

'Move on…' He shook his head slightly. It was time to start setting things up. If he didn't, there would be no job at the CIA waiting for him when all was said and done.

Fortunately, he already had a plan.

* * *

After cleaning up Jackson's room, Cam found El in the hotel's dining room, sitting alone at a table in the far corner.

Cam sat down across from him, eyeing the Mariachi wearily. He didn't know what to think of the man, and they hadn't had any real time to get to know each other. All he knew was he didn't trust him. He had to admit though, after finding the Mariachi and Sands in what appeared to be a death match, he was curious as to what kind of history the two men had together.

After a moment, Cam asked curiously, "What do you have against him?"

Meeting Cam's eyes, El said nothing.

"What is it? He use you?" Cam continued to prod.

"Yes."

"Well, join the club," Cam said, chuckling. "You know, as bad as it sounds… it's his job. He's an asshole, but he's an official asshole."

El set down his fork, shifting in his seat slightly in an effort to get comfortable on the hardback chair. "He is no better than the enemies he fights."

Elbows on the table, Cam leaned towards El. "I've known Sands for over ten years, and I still can't say that I know him. You've worked with him on one operation, and claim to know what he's all about."

"It is clear, what Agent Sands is about."

"Officer Sands is all about getting the job done," Cam stated, emphasizing the word officer.

"No. He's about power."

Cam nodded his head. "Oh yes, most definitely. But the two are not separate from each other; they intertwine."

El took another bite of his Pollo en Pipian, not having anything to say.

"Why don't you try talking to him? He may surprise you," Cam said, not willing to let the subject drop.

El shook his head slightly. "I don't think so."

"Did he tell you what happened to him on the Day of the Dead?" Cam asked, doubting that Sands had told him the whole truth. He knew very well that Sands wouldn't let anyone in on his little secret if it were possible. Even he didn't know the full details.

"Not completely."

"Well, why don't you find out? If you do, you'll clearly see who got the better end of the deal. The bottom line is that you want to get home and I want to get home. Our goal would be reached much quicker if all three of us could work together without threatening to blow each other's heads off every time we attempt to carry out a part of the op."

"And what does Sands want?"

"What makes you think I know? Ask him yourself."

El again said nothing as Cam signaled a waitress. He asked for two orders of beef chimichangas to be sent to room 303 before turning back to El.

"Think about what I said," Cam continued as he got up to leave. "If you agree, meet me in my room, 303, in about half an hour."

"What if I don't agree?"

Cam shrugged, pushing in his chair. "Well then, I'm sure Sands will make good on his threats."

* * *

Taking another long pull out of the tequila bottle in his hand, Sands wished his brain would succumb to that merciful numbness that so many people experienced while drinking. But alcohol didn't affect him that way. His mind never stopped. It was always turning, always thinking, always plotting and coming up with the next great scheme, and he'd learned long ago that his brain was both his best friend and his worst enemy.

He came to the conclusion that he wanted to get drunk. He wanted to get wasted out of his mind and that was a rare occasion indeed. He remembered Cecelia once telling him that he was the only person she'd ever met who could be totally sloshed yet completely sober at the same time.

He listened to the television distractedly, as some news anchor spouted the latest Mexico headlines in monotonous Spanish. He would have changed the channel, but considering the hotel only had three or four to begin with, he doubted he'd discover anything better than the news.

Figuring that sitting around and drinking was getting him nowhere, Sands decided to pay Cam a visit, or perhaps even El. Admittedly, the empty tequila bottle and growing boredom may have had something to do with the decision.

* * *

Cam opened his door, coming face to face with El. Stepping aside to let him in, Cam smiled. "I guess you're not as stupid as Sands led me to believe."

Closing the door, Cam followed El into the room.

"Have you worked with Sands for a long time?" El asked, sitting at the little table by the window.

Cam remained standing as he joined him by the table. "Like I said downstairs, I've known Sands for over ten years. We've worked together on several operations since we graduated from the Farm."

"The Farm?" El asked.

"Oh, right. It's where the CIA trains their officers."

El nodded once. "Why are you here?"

Cam laughed. "I've asked myself that same question many times, believe me."

"Well?"

"I guess it's because I've known him for so long… and I owe it to him."

"How can you owe him anything?"

Before Cam could reply there was another knock on the door. Answering it, he was startled to find Sands standing in the doorway wearing a wig and a corny T-shirt, with his cane in hand. "Sands. Why are you wearing a red Orphan Annie wig?"

"I just wanted to see what you thought of my newest disguise," Sands said, slurring his words as he walked into the room.

Cam signaled for El to stay quiet before looking Sands up and down. Other than the ridiculous wig, Sands was wearing the pair of jeans he'd brought him and a shirt that declared in white letters, 'Bomb squad: If you see me running, try and keep up,' on the front.

"Might consider ditching the bomb squad T-shirt."

His cane touching the bed, Sands sat down and retracted it, placing the humiliating object back in his pocket where it belonged. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, then shook his head. "I'd rather toss the wig," he said decisively, chucking the curly wig at Cam, who caught it and quickly plopped it onto the dresser. "I like the shirt," Sands said by way of explanation.

"So what brings you here?" Cam asked, glancing at El out of the corner of his eye.

"Your powerful animal magnetism, of course," Sands said with a straight face. "Plus I'm out of booze in my room and we need to hatch sinister plots against the many evildoers in this world," he continued, keeping up the slur despite the fact that he didn't really have one. He could hear someone else in the room, breathing softly and trying to keep quiet, and he decided to put Cam through a little bit of a test.

Whether Cam passed or failed wasn't really important. It was the distraction of playing head games which was needed, and focusing his overactive mind on much more productive activities, such as freaking out Cam.

"Are you actually drunk?" Cam asked, sounding somewhat shocked by the idea.

Sands smiled proudly and pointed a finger at Cam, purposefully missing his mark by a few feet. "I prefer the term plastered. Makes me sound like a concrete wall… one that can't be broken down." He laughed, as if he'd just told a great joke, and it sounded odd to everyone's ears, including his own.

El cast a curious glance at Sands, the laugh snaring his attention. That, and he hadn't imagined the agent as a drinker. Suspicious, he couldn't help but wonder what this was all about.

"Just how much have you had to drink, Sands?" Cam asked him curiously.

Sands held a hand up to count, standing. "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila… floor," he ended as he swayed on his feet.

Cam resisted the urge to steady him, asking instead, "What's your plan?"

Sands dug into his pocket, not answering the question.

"What's bugging you, Sands?" Cam asked directly after a lengthy silence.

Grabbing a cigarette, Sands lit up, waggling his finger at Cam. "You're at it again, you're trying to run the game, and I'm not gonna play." Taking a drag, he walked towards Cam. "I run the game, not you." He pretended to be a bit off kilter, preparing to reel Cam in. "Even if something was bothering me, what makes you think I'd tell you?"

"You can trust me, Sands." Sands pursed his lips at the word trust and Cam continued quickly, "You can tell me. It'll stay just between you and me."

"Just between you and me?" Sands blew a cloud of smoke into Cam's face. "I can trust you?" he asked seriously.

Cam swallowed hard, getting the distinctly bad feeling that he had just let himself fall into a trap, but unable to turn back now he answered, "Yes, you can."

"Hmm." Sands backed away from Cam and walked towards the window. Much to Cam's dismay, he was headed right towards El as well. El remained as silent as possible and Sands still appeared oblivious to the mariachi's presence as he neared him.

A few feet in front of El, Sands spun back around and asked Cam soberly, "Honestly? I can trust you implicitly?"

"Yeah," Cam replied, even as warning bells went off in his mind.

Sands pulled out his .45 and aimed it straight at El. "Then I can pull this trigger right now, and not worry about embedding a piece of lead in El's cranium?" Sands tilted his head in silent question.

Cam closed his eyes. '_Damn it, you idiot!' _He'd walked right into it.

Sands cocked the gun. "Well?"

Cam sighed heavily. "I'm sorry Sands, I just thought that…"

Sands lowered the gun. "Oh, don't worry Cameron. Honesty may be the best policy, but by a process of elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy."

"I was just…"

"Believe me, Cam, I know exactly what you were trying to do, and you'd never have attempted it if you thought I was sober," Sands cut in smoothly, approaching Cam again, all signs of drunkenness gone. "You wanted me to open up in front of El, so he'd suddenly have an epiphany and work with us willingly. There are only several major problems with that idea of yours. Congratulations on a badly thought out plan that even Jackson wouldn't have fallen for." Without warning, Sands' rammed the butt of his gun forcefully into the side of Cam's head, and Cam crumpled ungracefully to the floor.

Sands took another puff of his cigarette before turning towards El as the Mariachi spoke.

"He meant nothing by it."

Sands ignored his comment, deciding to get straight to the point. He knew what he needed to do now to get El to work with him. He was going to hate every minute of it, but if it meant a successful operation then he'd do it. "El, I think it's time you and I chewed the fat. You know… Officer to Mariachi, assassin to pistolero, law enforcer to law breaker…"

"Agreed," El cut in quickly, taking advantage of Sands' need to suck in a breath.

Tucking his gun back in its holster, Sands nodded and walked over to the window, hands positioned ever so slightly in front of him to prevent any run-ins with furniture in the unfamiliar room. Opening the window, he motioned for El to continue. "I'd rather this didn't take all night, so let's get real. What is it?" he asked bluntly.

El drummed his fingers on the table, watching Sands closely. "What is it?"

Sands turned to face him. "Haven't you had enough games, El?"

El smirked as he regarded Sands thoughtfully. "I thought you enjoyed your games."

A thick cloud of smoke filtered out Sands' nose. "I do. But eventually I tire of old games, and have to make room for new ones. So… what is it, El? What will make you willingly do this job for me?"

"I thought I already agreed."

Sands shook his head. "No, you haven't. You can't mislead me." Sands smirked. "You're still trying to make up your mind."

El thought about it for a moment. "Tell me the truth," he said, deciding that that was what he wanted.

Sands tilted his head towards El. "About?" he asked, knowing full well what El was referring to. He wasn't at all surprised at his request. It was what he'd been expecting.

"Día de los Muertos."

"Ah, Día de los Muertos," Sands said ruefully. "¿Por qué?"

"I want to know."

Sands flicked his cigarette out the window as he thought of the best way to go about this. Moving away from the window, he joined El at the table. "I can't tell you what happened on the Day of the Dead," Sands said, adjusting his sunglasses absentmindedly. He really didn't want to go through with this.

"Then I can't work for you willingly," El stated, disappointed. He'd hoped that Sands could answer at least one of his questions truthfully. Apparently, he was wrong to hope for such honesty from the officer. He began to get up, but Sands' voice stopped him.

"Sit back down, Mr. Bojangles."

Easing back into his seat, El waited for Sands to continue, but Sands took his time in doing so.

"I can't tell you because I can't…" he trailed off and sighed. Goddamn, he didn't want to do this. Forcing himself to continue, he said finally, "I can show you." Taking a long breath, Sands began to explain. "It starts with betrayal, El. You, Cucuy, Ajedrez… but most importantly, Martin."

"Who is Martin?" El asked when Sands' paused.

"My superior officer… using the term loosely, of course." Sands smirked. "You see, he was supposed to send me backup, but he never did. Martin left me high and dry in the middle of Culiacan with the cartel shadowing my every move."

"They get tired of your games, Agent Sands?" El asked.

"Ah! But that's the twist. He burned me without the CIA's blessing. He handed me to the cartel on a silver platter, and now I'm going to make sure the bastard gets what's coming to him."

"What exactly did the cartel do to you?"

"You know that I'm blind. What more do you need?"

"I think that there is more."

"There's always more."

El waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't, said, "You said you could show me."

Sands exhaled slowly, as if he'd been dreading something he knew was coming. He leaned back in his chair and it creaked slightly against his weight. Sluggishly, he reached up and took off his sunglasses, tossing them onto the center of the table.

Sands heard El's sharp intake of breath as he pushed his chair back slightly.

"So now you know, El. Do you feel enlightened?" Standing up, he went over to the window again and lit another cigarette. If it had been a bad habit of his to light up before, it was doubly so now. Placing the lighter back in his pocket he commented, "You know, sometimes I think revenge and cigarettes are all that's holding me together." He chuckled as he thought out loud, "That would make a good bumper sticker."

Quickly becoming serious, he leaned against the wall so that he was facing El, feeling far too exposed. However, he'd be damned if he was going to show any of his anxieties to El. "You see the truth in my eyes, so I expect no less from you. Will you willingly do this job for me, or not?"

"I'm sor…"

"Don't you dare say that to me," Sands said, a threat clearly evident in his voice. He'd play the victim if necessary, but he'd never accept pity from anyone, least of all from the man sitting in front of him now. "Answer my question, yes or no."

"I don't like you, Sands," El began again.

"Good. One less Christmas card for me to buy this year. That's not what I asked you."

"I'll do this if you keep your word about never bothering me again," El said, lowering his gaze to the tabletop, not wanting to look at what had happened to the officer any longer. He'd heard of cruelty like this from the cartel before, seen men with no hands as punishment for upsetting Barillo, but it never made it any easier for him to take. Taking both eyes was something he'd never heard of until now, but he knew all too well that the cartel was fully capable of doing such things. It was true that as much as he disliked the officer, he never would have wished for this to happen to him. Funny how the thought of the man's death hadn't bothered him anywhere near as much.

Moving back to the table, Sands put both palms on the tabletop and leaned in towards El. "As welcoming as your country has been to me, I don't think I'll wish to visit again anytime soon. You see, I don't like tacos and good slow roasted pork is hard to come by."

El sat there for a moment, staring hard at Sands as the officer retrieved his sunglasses from the table and slipped them back on. Inwardly, El heaved a sigh of relief. "Alright, I'll do it."

Sands nodded, then leaned sideways in his chair, as if looking over El's shoulder. El turned to see what had gotten Sands' attention, and saw that Cam had moved a little. He'd probably be waking up soon. "Why are you being so honest with me?"

"I thought it was time for a change," Sands quipped. "It was the only way to get you to cooperate with me, was it not? You see," Sands smiled, leaning in. "If it means getting what I want, I'll play whatever part I need to play."

"Why tell me this?"

"I'm sorry, did I offend you? I guess I should have lied, but that would have spoiled our arrangement."

El remembered what Cam had said at their meeting a little while ago, and asked without thinking, "Who are you, Sands?"

Not expecting the question, Sands' eyebrow crept up in mild surprise. "I'm whoever I need to be, of course. And I'll be your worst nightmare if you fail to keep your word now, understand?"

"I do."

Sands held out his hand, and El shook it reluctantly.

"I feel as though I'm making a deal with the devil," El muttered.

Amused by his words, Sands tightened his grip. "Maybe you are. You never can be too sure."

* * *

Latin Translations

Si finis bonus est, totum bonum erit. - If the end is good, then everything will be good.

Spook Speak Terminology

No spook speak this chapter.

* * *

Review Responses

Thanks, everyone, for your wonderful encouragement.

* * *

Special thanks to my beta, Stella, for all her time and help.

Scarlett

_"You know that withholding information from a Officer is a Federal Offense... especially when that Officer has paid handsomely for it and wouldn't think twice about ripping that patch off your eye-hole and skull-fucking you to death." Sands, OUATIM_

_"I've been eating potato chips this way for 30 years." Mort, Secret Window_


	36. Body of Evidence

**Chapter 36: Body of Evidence**

Sands released El's hand as he moved past. Coming to stand beside Cam, he tapped a foot impatiently as he waited for the officer to pull himself off the floor.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Sands said, offering Cam an unusually helpful hand up.

Cam eyed Sands' proffered hand wearily before tentatively grasping it.

Sands jerked him up unceremoniously. "Even a little white lie can come back to bite you in the ass, Cam. Don't do it again," Sands said dangerously, squeezing Cam's hand painfully to accentuate his point.

Extracting himself from Sands' grip, Cam walked over to the bed and sat down heavily as he gently felt the lump beginning to form at the base of his skull. "I was just trying to get you two to reach an understanding."

"I know. That's why you're not dead right now," Sands said bluntly. "In fact, El and I did reach an understanding during your siesta."

A knock on the door caused El and Cam to look towards it. "Expecting someone else?" Sands asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Food," Cam said shortly, feeling more than a little irritable. His head throbbed painfully when he stood up and went to answer the door.

Returning with the food, Cam handed Sands his chimichanga before sitting down on the bed and taking a bite out of his own.

"What's this?" Sands asked, holding the plate in front of him.

"Dinner. Eat it," Cam said between bites of food.

Sands rejoined El, his plate dropping to the table with a light thud. "We can't catch flies with vinegar, so I think it's time to get out the honey trap."

Cam swallowed his mouthful of food before asking, "Feeling violent today?"

"No, just creative with weapons," Sands replied calmly, idly spinning his plate on the table with an index finger and listening to the sound it made as the ceramic turned on the wooden tabletop. "Soon Martin will realize that he's no longer getting any of those nifty reports from Jackson. It won't take long for him to put two and two together."

Cam nodded his agreement. "I still don't completely understand what Jackson was going to do with you."

Sands stilled his plate. He'd figured out what Jackson had planned to do with him, the revelation coming after several swigs of tequila. His exchange with Jackson repeated itself in his mind, and the only upside to it was that he'd been able to glean some crucial information about Jackson and his motives. It was clear that Jackson was no assassin, and that he'd had no intention of killing him. After all, he'd had plenty of time to try and off him if that had been his assignment. By process of elimination and Jackson's lack of any specifically honed skills, he guessed that Jackson was most likely a bridge officer. "He was intending to make a special delivery to Martin. Me."

Cam was about to ask how Sands knew that, but El cut in before he could voice the question.

"What are we going to do?"

"We are not going to do a damn thing. You are going to take Jackson's car, drive down to CIA headquarters, and search for any and all documents with my name on them." Sands tasted the food in front of him and grimaced. "What is this?"

Cam wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Beef. It's what's for dinner."

"Haven't you ever heard of the other meat?" Sands asked dryly. "You know, pork?"

Shifting his attention back to El, he plopped the chimichanga back onto the plate. "You'll also want to keep a sharp eye out for any files with information about operation number…" Sands stopped mid-sentence. "Write this down. I'm not going to repeat it."

Cam glanced at Sands, as El grabbed a notepad and pen. "He's going to headquarters alone?" Cam asked skeptically.

"The assignment is simple enough. I'm sure a man of El's reputation can handle a little illegal entry and theft. Besides, you and I have bigger fish to fry."

"Such as?" Cam prodded.

"Martin," Sands said, his grumbling stomach winning over his tastebuds as he took another bite of his meal.

"We're staying here?"

"That's the plan." Sands faced El again. "Ready? I'd hate to rush you," he continued sarcastically.

"Yes," El grunted.

Nodding, Sands started where he'd left off. "Grab any documents with operation codename Intense Harvest or personnel codename Iron Ocelot."

Cam laughed. "So it's Iron Ocelot this time?" Sands smirked as Cam asked, "Who comes up with these codenames?"

"That's classified information, Chicken Little," Sands countered, smirking at the memory of one of Cam's more embarrassing codenames.

"I'll take no guff from you, Carnivorous Leech," Cam shot back.

"That one was cool," Sands drawled, pushing away his empty plate before digging out a cigarette.

"It fit," Cam said, watching Sands light up. "This is a non-smoking room."

Sands smiled humorlessly, inhaling deeply. "Not anymore."

"Is that everything?" El interrupted.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Sands asked, "What are you going to do when you have the documents?"

El, realizing the stupidity of his question, grudgingly muttered, "I do not know."

"Of course not, because I haven't told you yet." Sands flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. "When you're done with your search, you'll go back to Guitar Town with the documents and wait with bated breath for my call."

"I do not have a phone."

"What happened to the last one I gave you?" Sighing, Sands continued without waiting for an answer. "I'll drop a cell off for you before you go. Hang on to it this time. Those things can be fucking expensive."

"Why my home?"

"Because home is where the heart is." Sands took another drag as he waved a hand in dismissal, his acerbity not escaping El's notice. "Best to ask any questions you have now. This could be the last time you see me."

El's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "You are not picking up the documents?"

"No."

"Then why am I doing this?" El asked, unable to understand Sands' logic.

"I said that I will not pick them up. I didn't say they wouldn't be picked up by someone."

El shook his head a little. "From you, I expected a large shoot out with much bloodshed," El told him dryly.

Sands said nothing at first, while he decided what to tell El. "That's exactly the point."

El regarded Sands thoughtfully. The officer continued to surprise him, which was in and of itself quite… surprising. It was a continual reminder to not underestimate the man. His ability to anticipate what others would do and how they would think was both astounding and unnerving. "No wonder it bothers you so much," El said at last.

A frown creased Sands' forehead. "What?"

"What happened on Día de los Muertos. You didn't anticipate it. That's why you need your revenge."

Sands' muscles tensed at El's words. So reminiscent of Ajedrez's they sent a tingle down his spine. "That's deep, El. Really deep. But you're also wrong, so why don't you leave the psychobabble to the pros, like me, and stick to what you're good at, shooting people?"

OK, so he wasn't exactly telling El the full truth. The fact that he hadn't been able to see the setup coming did eat at him, but it wasn't what truly drove his need for revenge, and he certainly wasn't about to give El the satisfaction of knowing he'd seen through part of his mask. "Any other questions?"

"What do I do when I run into CIA personnel?"

Sands shrugged. "I don't really give a fuck if you shoot them, hide from them, or just wound them. I'll leave all those fun details to you. My only requirements are that you get the job done and you don't get caught. However," Sands motioned El to wait a moment as he reached inside his jean pocket and came up with a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and set it on the table in front of El. "This should help you make a more stealthy entrance."

Looking at it, El realized that it was a building plan of the CIA headquarters. "On the back of this, I wrote down Martin's full name, and where his office is located, as well as some other information that might prove useful." Sands quirked an eyebrow. "I find it interesting that I told you to get any documents with my name on them, and you never asked what my full name actually is."

El took the piece of paper, and stuck it in his pant pocket. "I thought I'd take any documents with the last name Sands."

"Nice thought El. But what if the documents only have my initials?"

"I did not think of it," El said bluntly.

"The initials would be SS or SJS, for Sheldon Jeffery Sands. I want you to leave in about…" Sands trailed off and turned to Cam. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Nine."

"Leave in three hours. Leave on time, and drive straight through with only the necessary stops… because timing is everything in this little game of ours. Half past four you need to be inside headquarters. Try not to take more than an hour at headquarters, and definitely don't stay there longer than an hour and a half. You get your ass out of there with whatever you have, and drive straight to Guitar Town. You may want to make sure you're not being followed while you do that. From there, you wait for my call, and you don't take orders on what to do with the documents from anyone but me. Cam, did you get Jackson's car keys?"

"Yup."

Sands held out his hand, and Cam passed the keys to him with a somewhat bewildered look. "Anything else you need to know?" Sands asked El.

"No."

"Then I suggest you rest up. In three hours you'll be starting one hell of a day."

"The keys?" El asked.

Sands stuck them in his pocket. "You'll get them when you need them."

Once El had left, Sands turned to Cam. "You have any of your trackers with you?"

Cam nodded and went over to his suitcase. "You know I always carry a few."

Sands nodded, stubbing his cigarette out on the table as he stood. "Got anything to drink?"

"There's probably something in the minibar, eight o'clock," Cam said by way of direction as he found the trackers he had brought with him. "How many trackers do you need?"

Sands opened the fridge door and, finding a shape that felt familiar, he grabbed it and twisted off the cap. "Two." Sniffing the contents of the bottle, he was happy to discover that it was brandy, and downed it quickly. It was cheap stuff, but then he really wasn't in a position to be choosy at the moment.

"What are we going to do?" Cam asked, handing Sands the trackers.

"We're going to let the bastards catch us."

Sands stepped out of the hotel lobby and into the night air. It was thankfully much cooler after sunset. It wasn't that he had a problem with hot climates. After all, he'd grown up in Florida where the winters dipped down to a drastic seventy degrees. Floridians freak when they wake up with a covering of frost for Christ's sake. No, it wasn't exactly heat that bothered him.

His cane tapped lightly in front of him as he walked down the sidewalk and toward Jackson's car, keeping an ear out for any vehicles or people that didn't have his best interests in mind.

No, it wasn't exactly heat that bothered him. It was this dry heat that he disliked. Dry heat and dust. He hadn't minded it before the Day of the Dead, but now it affected him in a way he didn't want to dwell on. Psychobabble aside, he knew very well that his mind was doing one hell of a number on him and the only way to pull it out of its downward spiral was to focus on his mission.

Stopping in front of a car, he went around to the driver's side and tried the key. He heard the click as the door unlocked. He opened the door, grateful that he'd counted his steps right. He set the recently emptied shoulder bag down on the front seat and began searching the car, putting everything he found in the bag. There wasn't much in the car. Anything that had any chance of being informative came from the glove compartment, and a small locked box that he found under the driver's seat. Slinging the bag over his shoulder again, he slammed the door shut and moved to the back of the car. Popping the trunk he felt around and came across one more unidentified item. Putting it in with everything else, he zipped up the bag before taking a tracker out of his pocket.

'Sorry, El, but trust isn't my strong suit and I don't trust you.' Fingers running along the bottom of the trunk, Sands found a loose edge of carpet and pulled it up. Slipping the tracker between the fabric and the metal, he turned it on before smoothing the carpet back in place. There was only one thing left. He nabbed the guitar, and closed the trunk.

Hearing a car park, Sands leaned against Jackson's car and set the guitar down beside him. He lit up a cigarette and took a drag as he listened to two people get out of the car and walk towards the hotel entrance.

Looking casual as he puffed at his cigarette, he waited until they were inside before walking to the car on the left of Jackson's.

He took out the second tracker, flicked it on, and listened intently for any sign of other people in the parking lot as he took another drag. Hearing no one, he went to the front of the car and quickly slipped the tracker into the front grill. _'I trust you even less, Ava.'_

Having planted the trackers, he retrieved the guitar and slung it over his shoulder with the bag. As he did so, he heard a car pull into a spot about three spaces away. Starting back for the hotel, Sands stopped when he realized that nothing was guiding his way.

'Fucking cane.' He'd left it on the driver's side of Jackson's car.

As he walked around the car his hearing was focussed on the sound of someone getting out of the vehicle that had just parked.

Bending down to search for his cane, he immediately bristled when the footsteps didn't pass him and continue to the hotel entrance, instead coming to a halt directly in front of him.

Not knowing whether the individual was a threat or not, he continued to search for his cane, deciding to wait the person out. He heard his unknown visitor pick something up off the ground, so he stopped his search and lifted his head towards them.

"Looking for this?"

Sands straightened up from his crouch slowly. A woman's voice, and a familiar one at that.

"In a manner of speaking," Sands said dryly. "Hello Tina."

He didn't bother asking what brought her here. He was sure the Company had sent others besides Cam to bring him back to the States.

"It's just business, Sands."

"Nothing personal," he finished, smirking. He took the cigarette from his lips, flicking off the dangling column of ash.

She had his cane still clutched in one hand as she continued. "Please don't make this difficult, Sands. If you're innocent of these crimes, like you say, then you don't have anything to worry about."

She walked out from between the cars, and Sands followed, setting the bag and guitar down on the asphalt beside him.

"I'm hardly worried," he said, taking one last draw of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground.

He heard her sigh, and noted a hint of regret in her voice, as she said, "You should be."

Sensing what she was about to do, he ducked and kicked her legs out from under her before she could deliver a blow to his head with the cane she still held. She let out a startled cry as her feet went out from under her and Sands pushed her weight backwards as she fell. He knew he'd guessed her intentions right when the cane connected hard with his shoulder as she went down flat on her back.

The cane fell to the asphalt, rolling out of her reach. Tina struggled for breath, the sudden contact with the cement knocking the wind out of her.

Sands stepped over her prone body and knelt down, straddling her. Taking hold of her neck, he applied pressure, making it impossible for her to get her wind back.

Leaning in close, his expressionless mask in place, he said quietly in her ear, "You were always good, Doll, but never try and best the best."

He pulled away from her, listening to her wheeze. Loosening his grip on her neck slightly, he continued. "Although you're not as sharp as you used to be."

Her knee came up, hitting him in the back in an attempt to push him off. Unfortunately for her, she was too weak from lack of oxygen and the blow lacked force. His grip on her neck loosened, however, when he was jarred forward from the blow, his sunglasses slipping down his nose.

Finding her voice, she said weakly, "And you're not as pretty as you used to be. Guess we both…" She was cut off as Sands shifted his position, knee now pressed firmly against her throat.

He pushed his sunglasses up with an index finger, oblivious to the fact that she was reaching for the gun at her hip. As blackness closed in on the edges of her vision, she used the last of her strength to cock her gun, aiming it at his stomach.

Hearing the gun being cocked brought his attention back to Tina in a hurry. Not thinking clearly in his surprise, he looked down expecting to see the gun, and realized where she was aiming it. Cursing his foolishness, he quickly twisted to the side, hoping to escape the path of her bullet.

As blackness cloaked her vision, she squeezed her eyes closed and pulled the trigger. Sands let out a hiss of pain as he fell to her left. The pressure on her neck let up and she gasped for breath, her lungs burning. Coughing, she dropped the gun to the ground and opened her eyes. She lay on the ground for a minute, struggling to catch her breath. It took a moment for everything to come into focus, and she turned to see Sands lying beside her in an oddly twisted position, one leg still on top of her own.

Tina's head swam as she sat up. Eyeing Sands warily, she picked up her gun and moved her legs out from under his. He seemed to be unconscious, and after retrieving her gun she crawled over to him cautiously, still not trusting her own legs to hold her up just yet.

She bent over him, her hand going to his throat, feeling for a pulse. Finding one, she breathed a small sigh of relief. It was better to return him to the Company alive rather than dead. Hearing someone, she looked up to see a man walk out of the hotel. She tucked her gun away and out of view just as he caught sight of the two of them.

"¿Quál es el problema?" he called out to her, approaching quickly.

"Do you speak English?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Si. A little. Is he hurt?" he asked, motioning to Sands' still form as he stood next to her.

She closed Sands' jacket to cover the blood on the side of his torso before she stood up. "Yes, but I think he'll be alright. I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention and ran into him. I must have caught him off guard because he stumbled and fell. Hit his head on the ground."

He looked at her somewhat skeptically, and she reached over and grabbed the cane. "He must be blind," she continued, and he dropped his suspicious look.

"Need help?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, thank you. He doesn't seem to be bleeding or anything. I'll stay with him until he wakes up. No need for you to stay."

"What if he is hurt badly?"

"I don't think he is, but if so I can go into the hotel and ask for help. Thank you, though."

The man nodded, wishing her luck as he walked away and got into a truck. Within a minute he was gone, and she let out a shaky breath before she leaned over Sands again, intending to disarm him while he was still out.

So it was a big surprise to her when he pressed his gun to her temple. "Don't run. You'll just die tired."

She didn't have time to think about his comment. He pulled the trigger and she fell onto his chest, dead.

He pushed her off him roughly and stood, grimacing as he felt the pain in his side. He buttoned his jacket closed, covering the wound. Adjusting his sunglasses, he felt around until he found his cane.

Picking it up, he slipped its band around his wrist, got out Jackson's keys and unlocked the trunk. Opening it, he grabbed hold of Tina's arms and dragged her to the trunk of the car, thankful that he didn't have far to take her. Ignoring his protesting side, he picked her up and deposited her in the trunk.

He was sure El would be thrilled about this turn of events. One side of his mouth twitched up in amusement at the thought.

Closing the trunk, he slung the bag and guitar over his shoulder and headed back into the hotel.

Dropping the bag and guitar off in his room, and picking up an envelope he'd prepared earlier; he walked back down the hall to El's room. He knocked on the door; it didn't take long for El to answer.

Sands dangled the keys in front of El, and El took them with a grunt. "It is about time."

"Oh, stop complaining El," Sands said, leaning against the doorway, managing to keep the pain he felt out of his voice. "I'd think you would be happy. After all, you're on your way home." He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, handing it to El. "Don't be a stranger."

Pushing himself off the doorframe, he reached into the room and grabbed the doorknob. Before closing the door, he paused. "By the way, you might want to empty the trunk when you reach a deserted area."

Sands closed the door, leaving El to stand in his room, wondering what surprise Sands had in store for him now.

The moment Sands stepped into his room, he knew that something was wrong. He listened carefully for signs of anyone else in the room. Hearing none, he closed the door and walked further into the room. He didn't make it far, his foot tripping over an unfamiliar object lying on the floor. Sands groaned in irritation as he caught himself before he fell, narrowly avoiding a hard collision with the ground.

Kneeling, his hand brushed up against the lump on the floor. As his hand ran along it, his stomach turned at the realization of just what it was.

A body.

And judging by its temperature and stiffness, a dead one.

"A gift for me?" Sands muttered as he searched the body, trying to figure out just who was lying on his floor. All he could tell was that the body was that of a man, but he didn't know whose it was. "But it's not even my birthday…"

His hand grazed a piece of paper that was pinned to the man's shirt. Pulling it off, he quickly realized it wasn't just an ordinary note. The paper wasn't smooth. It had bumps on it.

But it wasn't just bumps… it was Braille.

'A fucking Braille note pinned to a corpse... in my hotel room.'

Sands let his fingers do the reading, and when he figured out what it said he nearly dropped it in horror.

I have seen too much.

"Shit!" Sands spat. Slowly he stood up and backed away from the body. His hand clutched the note tightly, as his mind screamed.

'Who'd know? Who'd know what Barillo said to me right before he took my eyes? Who? Who? Who?' Sands took a deep breath. _'They're all dead.'_

Sands took a deep breath. 

Sands ran his fingers over the note again.

I have seen too much.

"You've only seen too much. I want to make sure that doesn't happen again."

Barillo was dead. He knew that. Ajedrez was dead too. He shot her himself.

'So who could've left this note? Who'd know?'

He was startled out of his thoughts by a phone ringing, but the ring wasn't coming from the hotel phone. Sands snatched Jackson's cell off the dresser. Making up his mind, he flipped open the cell and answered. "County morgue. You stab 'em, we bag 'em."

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "My God…. Sands?" It was Martin. "Where's Jackson?" he asked, catching on quickly.

"I haven't seen him," Sands said, keeping his voice neutral despite the rage he was feeling.

"You've killed him, haven't you?"

"Oh yeah, he's dead," Sands drawled. "But I'll have him call you back later."

"You can't stop what's going to happen, Sands. I've put too much thought into this. You can't escape this time. I know where you are."

"I know. So come and get me. Or are you such a coward that you can't deal with one blind officer on your own?" God, how he hated to say that, but he needed Martin to come after him, and he'd rather Martin did it on his terms and his turf, rather than the other way around. "I know you're nearby. Had to keep an eye on Jackson, after all." He paused for a moment. "So come and get me yourself mother-fucker, if you're man enough."

Sands snapped the cell phone shut, feeling his hands shaking.

'I've put too much thought into this.'

Goddamn it, he should have known. He should have put the pieces together sooner.

Throwing the cell phone as hard as he could, it hit the wall with a crunch as he ran a hand through his hair. "You asshole!" he screamed to nobody but himself, allowing his mind the loss of the trademark cool he was so known for, his voice cracking. "You fucking did this to me!"

He ran a hand over his face, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Returning to his bed, he lifted the room phone from the cradle. Speaking to a man at the front desk, he asked about the package he was expecting. His blood ran cold when the man told him that it had already been picked up.

"What?" Sands asked, unable to believe it. "By who?"

"Signature says Sheldon Sands."

Slamming the phone down on the cradle, he tried to clear his mind enough to figure out just what his next move should be.

Approaching the body again, he knelt down next to it as he wondered just whose body it was. The only thing he knew for certain was that the body was that of a full-grown man, and his stomach knotted when the only two obvious choices entered his mind.

It was either Jackson… or Cam.

Not bothering to get up this time, he reached over and yanked the phone, cradle and all, off the nightstand. The base hit the ground with a thud and the same man he'd spoken to previously answered at the front desk again.

"Eric Cameron's room." He tapped the side of the phone with his index finger nervously as it rang. _'Answer the phone, Cam.'_

After five rings, Cam picked up, and Sands felt surprisingly relieved.

"Yeah?"

"This is your wakeup call," Sands said.

"I don't remember asking for one. Why'd you call?" Cam asked with a yawn.

"Because of all the people I know, you're one of them," Sands said, his free hand searching the pockets of the man on the floor.

"I'm honored. Any other reason you called me in the middle of the night?"

"There have been some changes to the plan," he said cryptically. "Keep a sharp eye out. The wolves are baying at our door and we can't be caught by surprise." He found a wallet in the right pocket, and as he turned it over in his hands he realized that he'd done so before. Recognizing the shape, size and clasp, he sighed and sat back on his heels.

"What's happened?" Cam asked, quickly waking up as he realized that something must have happened.

"The package you ordered has been picked up," Sands said, opening the wallet and pocketing the money inside. Tossing the wallet over his shoulder, he interrupted Cam as he started to reply. "By me, no less."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I wasn't there at the time."

Cam paused a moment before figuring out what Sands was saying. "That's not good. What's the new plan?"

"You stay in your room. Wait for me to come. Don't answer the door to anyone but me; not Ava, not El, not anyone. I may be a while, but stay put."

"I don't like this," Cam said. "I'm here to help you, not sit here and do nothing."

"I'm touched," Sands deadpanned. "Just do it."

Hanging up, Sands turned his full attention back to the body on the floor. "Thanks for the spare change, Jackson. I'd hate to find out you'd stuck me with the hotel bill."

The note's message repeated itself in his mind over and over as he bent over the body. "So, were you delivered by UPS, Fed Ex, or Air America," Sands mumbled. An image popped into his mind and before he even realized it, his right hand went to Jackson's cheek. Fingers touching something wet and sticky, Sands' steeled himself as his fingers moved further up Jackson's face.

When he encountered the empty holes he'd been dreading, an involuntary shudder ran up his spine. He snatched his hand back quickly as if it had been burned.

He took a deep breath. Then another.

'No eyes, no eyes, no eyes… that's me.'

Sands pulled off his sunglasses. His breathing hitched as his hand grazed over one of his own empty sockets. "No," he whispered, pulling himself off the ground and backing towards the bed in the center of the room. "Just like me, but it's not me. It's not me," he muttered. Shaking his head back and forth as if to convince himself that it wasn't true, he snatched up the pillow on his bed, and the gun that was hidden beneath it.

Kneeling down, he placed the pillow over Jackson's face, cocked the gun, and held it against the pillow.

Then he pulled the trigger.

He pulled the trigger three more times before he was able to regain control.

'I'm on the razor's edge,' Sands thought to himself suddenly. Panting heavily from the sudden rush of adrenaline, Sands got up, not bothering to take the pillow off Jackson's head.

'What am I doing?' he thought, tired of his constant struggle to remain in control.

A sharp twinge reminded him suddenly of the bullet wound in his side. He pulled his coat off gently, tossing it on the bed with his gun. When he felt his shirt, he realized that he'd lost more blood than he'd thought. It hadn't felt like it was that bad.

At least it explained why he felt so drained. Removing his shirt, he held it against the wound as he dug around in his bag for his first aid kit. Finding it, he went over to the minibar and found another bottle of liquor, taking both items into the bathroom with him.

Taking the shirt away, he felt his side tentatively. He had accumulated an unbelievable amount of scars over the past few months, and now he had yet another one to add to the list.

The bullet had cut straight through his left side, in the front and out the back. He'd live. It hadn't hit any vital organs, but it was bleeding like a son-of-a-bitch. "Glad I dodged that bullet," Sands mumbled, as he began to patch himself up. If he had been in a better mood, he might have considered himself lucky. It had been a damn close call.

After fixing himself up and taking a couple of aspirin to ease the pain, he decided to go through the bag of stuff he'd taken from Jackson's car. He was especially curious about the locked box he'd taken from under the driver's seat. What he found was interesting, indeed.

Sands knocked on Ava's door. He had to admit, he was curious to see whether or not she had decided to stay. His question was answered a minute later when she opened the door.

She looked at Sands for a moment, noticing that he looked even paler than he had before, and stepped aside to let him in. "Come in."

Acting on her invitation, he came inside and she closed the door behind him. Sands turned to face her as she stood in the entryway. "Well, I must admit, I thought you were brighter than this, Miss Hunter."

She looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"If you were smart you would have left when I gave you the chance. But seeing as how you're not, I don't see why I shouldn't use you to my advantage." Sands turned away and took a couple more steps into the room. Opening his coat and taking out an envelope, he redid a button before turning to her, holding up the envelope. "The information in this envelope can boost you to the highest ranks of journalistic excellence. Or, if you choose, it can make you very, very rich by selling it to the highest bidder. So, if I hand this envelope to you, what are you going to do with it?"

She came to stand next to him, sensing that he was testing her. "I'm going to do whatever you tell me to do with it."

"Are you, Sugar?

"Of course. But why tell me how valuable the information in it is?"

"If you were crooked, you'd open it anyway," Sands shrugged, handing it to her. "This includes information on a CIA operation in Culiacan. I am asking you to hold on to it."

"You don't want me to do anything with it?" she asked, surprised.

"Just keep it," he said, giving her the envelope. "If you don't, I'm sure I can think of a fitting end for you."

She nodded, swallowing thickly. "You don't seem like the type to trust someone with documents such as these, so why are you?"

"Don't flatter yourself Miss Hunter. Everything in that envelope is a copy of the original. You're nothing more than backup. A little extra leverage against the Company." Sands smirked. "I believe in covering all bases."

"Can I ask you something?" Ava asked after a moment, envelope in hand.

"Shoot."

"Are you really blind, or is it just an act?"

Sands arched an eyebrow. "Are you really trustworthy?" he asked, walking past her to the door. "Pack up and leave. Right now. I assume that Tom knows how to contact you?"

"Yes."

"Groovy," Sands said, opening the door and listening for any movement in the hallway. Hearing none he stepped out of her room and called "Happy trails," to Ava, before closing her door. He had one more stop to make.

"What is this?" Cam asked, taking the clear baggy with two half-inch minidisks.

"My proof. At least part of it."

"You're kidding! These are the recordings from your cell?"

"Seems that Jackson had a few surprises in his car," Sands said, removing a second smaller envelope from his jacket.

"Why are you giving these to me?" Cam asked. He knew that Sands was anything but trusting and he wondered why he didn't just keep the recordings on him.

Sands tilted his head, pursing his lips slightly. "Any reason I shouldn't?"

"Of course not… I just don't think I'll ever understand you. Why not keep them yourself?"

"Who said I wasn't keeping a couple myself? But don't you think it's possible that when Martin comes, he'll try to ensure that I have no evidence of his illegal acts of treason? What if he has someone else with him to search me or my room for this evidence? Never put all your eggs in one basket."

Putting the recording in the false bottom of his suitcase, Cam asked, "So what are we going to do now that the package with all the equipment didn't arrive?"

"Sometimes you just have to do a little bit of improvising. Go with the flow. Stay here like I told you to. I'm hoping that they don't know that you're here. I've been careful about not being followed, but it's better to be safe than sorry." Sands took out a second envelope, handing it to Cam.

"Alright," Cam said, recognizing the mode that Sands' mind was now set in. All the bizarre metaphors, riddles and mind games dropped away, stripping Sands' dialogue down to the bare need-to-know facts. It was the way he became with another officer or agent when an operation was at its climax. Somehow, seeing that Sands was still able to reach this mindset was oddly assuring.

"If anything goes wrong, and I don't return to this room, you take this to the dead drop specified in two days."

Cam nodded, looking down at the directions taped to the envelope. Turning it over, his eyes widened as he read the name on the back.

Sheldon Sands.

"What is this about?" Cam asked.

"If I wanted you to know, I'd tell you. Just do it."

Cam sighed, tucking the envelope away in his suitcase. "Why are we staying? Why not leave with what we've found? Get the information El discovers and take it to the Company?"

Sands sat down at Cam's table and took off his sunglasses, hanging them off the collar of his shirt. He sat there for a long time, and Cam could tell that he wasn't in the room anymore, but somewhere else. He wore an indescribable look that seemed oddly out of place on his face. It took him a long time to speak, and when he did, he sounded utterly drained. His face was haggard and pale, and uncharacteristically pained.

"My biggest problem is that I believe everything that I tell myself."

Cam took a deep breath. Sands had never talked to him this way before, and might never do so again. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, waiting for Sands to elaborate.

"I told myself that I had control. If I don't have control over myself, then I am nothing. I told myself that they couldn't break me." He paused as he lit a cigarette. "I have to win this. I have to get my revenge against Martin. I have to prove him wrong." Sands took a long drag, holding the smoke in as long as he could. "I have to prove that I can't be broken so easily," he said at last, leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he smoked.

Cam was speechless. This doubt was not part of the Sands he knew, and he realized that Sands needed to do this to prove to himself that he was still the officer that he'd always been. He needed to prove that Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands hadn't died on the Day of the Dead.

"Little fish get eaten by big fish, and big fish get eaten by sharks, Eric. So what are you? Have you ever stopped and asked yourself that? What am I? What is Martin? I can't live the rest of my life blind, wondering about the answer to that question. If I'm not the shark, then fuck it."

Sands stood and walked to the door. He didn't want Cam to say anything. He just wanted to leave. But before he could walk out he heard Cam behind him. "If you think you're anything but the shark, than you really are crazy."

Sands allowed himself the ghost of a smile as he walked back to his room. He had no intention of losing.


	37. Revelations

**Chapter 37: Revelations**

Sands stepped into his room, forcing himself to appear more confident about the current situation than he actually felt. Closing the door behind him, he removed his jacket and tossed it to his left, not caring if it landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

No matter how many times he told himself that he could best Martin any day of the week, that he could win, the doubt in the back of his brain always presented itself, rattling his already shaky state of mind.

Maybe that was why, at this very moment, he was standing in the middle of his hotel room as if he couldn't decide which way to go.

Sighing, Sands took his cell phone out of his pocket, intending to call Tom. With the number already set in his speed dial, he hit the call button and waited. Pacing the room as it rang, he breathed a sigh of relief when it was finally picked up.

"Tom, clear your dance card," Sands stated. He hadn't even given Tom a chance to say hello.

"What odd requests can I fulfill for you this time?" Tom asked wryly. "What do you need? A butler? A Pontiac Firebird? Or do you need a weapon? Perhaps a sniper rifle? Ion Cannon? Hornet Missile Launcher?"

Sands smirked. "As tempting as the missile launcher sounds, it's not what I had in mind. Maybe later."

"So what can I do you for?"

"Your time."

There was a long pause. Sands could only hear the crackle of the line and Tom's breathing on the other end.

"That's the oddest request you've made yet," Tom said at last. "You know my time is money, a _lot_ of money, so you're aware it'll cost you? I'll have to clear a couple other projects."

"So bill me," Sands replied dryly. "Sit tight and see if you can hear this."

Sands pressed a button on the side of his cell, turned up the volume on his end, and set the cell down on the bed. Walking to the center of the room, he spoke in his typical drawl.

"I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam, I am." He took another step back. "I do not like them on a boat. I would not, could not, with a goat." He took two more steps back. "I do not like green eggs and ham."

When Sands picked the cell back up, he was greeted by the sound of Tom laughing like a hyena at Sands' rendition.

"I take it you could hear that?" Sands asked, slightly amused despite his situation.

"You are one weird asshole," Tom said, still chuckling. "Could hear you fine. It got a bit faint when you recited the last line, but I could still make it out."

"Groovy. I need you to set yourself up so that you can record this line, and I need you to do it in a hurry."

"I suppose that's possible if you give me, say, twenty minutes."

"Done. I'm going to call you when a certain slime-ball arrives. I want you to record the conversation. Once it's all over I want you to make four duplicates. Send the first copy to the Company's Director of Operations. Send the second copy to the FBI's CODIS unit, care of Sheldon Sands, Sr. The third copy I want you to send to my P.O. box in Florida. You know the address. The last copy I want you to hold on to."

"You're sending a copy to your father? The guy you never speak to? What's going on?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Any questions?"

"Yeah. What is going on?" Tom repeated himself, never one to be easily fobbed off. "You know, I recently heard a rumor about you."

Sands tipped his head back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Is this important? Because I'm a little short on free time and the grapevine is the least of my worries today."

"It's goddamn important if it's true. You're sucking me into this without telling me a goddamn thing. So, I'll ask two questions... since you're in such a hurry. You don't answer them; I don't do this next job for you. First question: Have you gone rogue? Second question: Why did you need me to send a driver?"

'_Shit. Shit. Shit.' _Sands sat down heavily, the bed creaking under his weight. The last thing he wanted to do right now was get into all this with Tom. "Why does it matter?"

"Because it does," Tom stated. "I've worked with you for six years, and I want to know if what I heard is true."

"Fine. The answers are yes, and because I can't drive," Sands said flatly.

"Why can't you drive?" Tom pressed.

"Fuck you. You already know why. I'm not going to say it."

"What happened? Your flamboyance finally catch the wrong person's attention?"

"Are you going to do it or not?" Sands asked, not having the time or energy to talk about the subject further.

The lack of immediate response from the other end was not a good sign, so he was surprised when, after twenty seconds of stony silence, Tom answered. "Yeah. I'll do it."

Sands fell back against the bed, rubbing one of his pounding temples with his free hand. "Good to know that you still have a spine," he drawled.

"That has nothing to do with it and you know it. But I'm not sticking my neck out for your cocky ass, you understand? You get caught and I've never heard of you or this 'operation' of yours."

"How touching. I wouldn't expect anything else from you. I have to jet. Get ready." Sands hung up and stuck the cell back in his pocket.

Getting off the bed, he pulled the sheets back. Having temporarily stashed Jackson's body in the bathroom, Sands went to retrieve it. Walking into the bathroom, he grabbed Jackson by the ankles and dragged him to the bed.

"You've never been anything but dead weight," Sands grumbled, as he lifted Jackson onto the bed and turned him so that he was facing away from the door.

Sands wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. All the stress, both mental and physical, was taking its toll on his strength, and the new wound did nothing to help the situation, even if it was mostly superficial.

He picked up the bloody pillow from the floor and shoved it under the bed, hoping it was out of sight. After pulling the sheets over Jackson, he took a step back. He figured that in the dark, Jackson's body might fool Martin from the entryway, at least long enough to give him an edge.

Lighting a cigarette, Sands took a long draw before grabbing a gun and a clip out of his bag. Loading the clip into the gun, he tucked the weapon into his pants. Searching the floor for a minute, he found the jacket he'd tossed and slipped it back on, hiding the gun from view.

After making sure all the light switches were switched off, he dug around in his suitcase. Finding his small travel-size cologne, he went over to the foot of the bed. Spraying a large dose of the cologne, he tucked the bottle in the front pocket of his jacket and made his way over to the nightstand.

Locating the bedside lamp, he ran his hand along the bottom of it until he found the power cord. He followed the power cord down to the wall and, not finding a plug and outlet, but a cord that went straight into the wall, he took out his pocketknife, made a kink in the cord and cut it quickly.

After doing the same with the lamp on the opposite side of the bed, he moved on to the light switch by the door.

Taking out his wallet, he sifted through his spare change until he found a dime. Sticking the edge of the dime into the flat screw head, he proceeded to unscrew the cover from the wall. The dime's edge was hardly ideal, and made the task a bit slower than normal, but he got the job done nonetheless.

Carefully feeling around for a moment, he found the power wires and yanked them out from the switch. Wary of being shocked, he bent the hot wires up so that the ends weren't touching anything.

He planned on making Martin talk, getting Martin to brag about how clever he was, and how involved he was in the whole unraveling of his operation. Sands didn't think that this part of his plan would prove to be a problem.

However, his whole scheme would go to hell in a hand-basket if Martin himself didn't come. Unfortunately, all he could do was hope that just this once things would go his way.

He had several weak points in his plan that he had to compensate for. Because the things he'd ordered had been intercepted by one of Martin's men, he only had one crude method of getting Martin's confession recorded. His cell phone, and Tom.

Not only was using his cell to transmit unreliable, it relied on Tom actually doing what he asked, and the recording actually being understandable. He hated having to rely on anyone else to do something so important.

As if that wasn't enough, he'd given his only extra cell to El, so if Martin discovered the one he was using before or during the recording process, he'd be shit out of luck.

El and Ava would help him provide documented proof against Martin to the Company. However, documents could be forged. A taped recording of Martin confessing his dirty deeds would be hard to ignore. All the evidence together would seal Martin's fate.

He needed this extra proof, because even if he managed to prove his case to the Company on paper, there was always the possibility of Martin pinning the whole thing on someone else.

Then he had to make sure that Martin didn't see him dial out, or spot the cell lying open. Since he had to place it in a spot close to where they talked, he figured killing the lights would be the best course of action. Plus, the darkness would give him an added edge, since he was more used to it than Martin.

Making sure the deadbolt on the door was not in place, Sands took the tracker he'd taken off Jackson's car, reinserted the battery and flipped it on. Not hearing the telltale beep, he took out the battery and put it in the other way round. Hearing the beep, he placed it by Jackson, under the sheets.

'Can't make it any easier for you, Martin, so come and get me,' he thought to himself as he walked into the bathroom and sat behind the partially closed door. The only thing left to do now was the one part of being a spy that he'd always hated: he had to sit there and wait.

* * *

About an hour and a half later, Sands heard the sound of his door opening quietly. Since Cam had broken the lock when he forced his way in earlier, the door didn't even have to be jimmied. 

He flipped open the phone and hit speed dial as he heard the intruder enter his room. Putting the phone to his ear, he made sure that it had dialed out and was picked up before he got up from his seated position. Still hidden by the door, he held his breath as the man took a step into the bathroom. He heard the flick of a light switch as the man turned on the only light he hadn't disabled.

The person he assumed was Martin didn't check thoroughly. He just peeked in before flipping the light back off and moving further into the room.

Sands skirted around the door and followed silently as the person approached the bed. Gently setting the open cell down on the desk as he passed it, he quickly crept up on the man, taking out his gun as he heard the rustle of sheets being pulled back. By the time the man knew that he'd been duped, Sands had the barrel of his gun pressed into the small of the intruder's back.

"I'm afraid that's overkill. Not that overkill is a bad thing, mind you. I'm a firm believer in it," Sands said, cocking the gun. "You may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even you wouldn't come in here unarmed. Drop it." He heard the sound of something hitting the carpet.

"You won't pull that trigger if you care at all for your standing in the Company."

"Ah, Martin… if you really believe that, then why did you drop your gun?" Sands asked, hearing Martin turn around to face him.

"Because you're crazy," Martin stated as if it were fact.

"Well it's a crazy world we live in, and I've always prided myself on my ability to adapt to any situation."

"Even the one you're in now?" Martin asked. "I think even your adaptability has its limits. But I'm betting you won't pull that trigger because doing so won't help you. You'll only dig yourself in deeper."

Sands smirked bitterly. "I can't dig any deeper. I've already hit the earth's core."

"Why are you here in Mexico? Killing me won't help you…"

"That's true, but it would make me feel so much better." Sands tapped the barrel of his gun against his chin thoughtfully. "However, if you must know, I'm here because I want to know one thing. Why?"

"Why?" Martin laughed.

Sands bent down and picked up the gun Martin had dropped.

"You don't know why?" Martin asked again. "It seems you're blind in more ways than one."

Sands bit his tongue painfully to keep himself in check. It was obvious that Martin was trying to rile him. He turned and took a couple steps closer to the open cell phone. No, Martin wasn't going to get under his skin. Not now. He smiled to himself when he heard Martin take a couple steps with him. "I overestimated you. I really did," Sands said, as if to himself. _'Come on, asshole. Time to spill the beans.'_

"Overestimated me?" Martin asked.

"I thought you knew where your loyalties lay." Sands spun on his heel, facing Martin again. "Why?" he demanded, nudging Martin with the barrel of the gun.

"Money, of course," Martin answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ah, the root of all evil," Sands drawled.

"What else would it be? As much as you grate on my nerves, I hold no secret grudge against you. I had nothing to gain as far as the Company was concerned by burning you. It was business. Cold hard cash. Plain and simple. You just happened to be in my way."

"How disappointing. I had credited you with more imagination."

"Did you?"

He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the way Martin said that caused it all to click. "You unbelievable bastard." So his suspicion had been right after all. The subtle admission settled in his stomach like a brick.

Sands took a step back, shaking his head. It was almost unbelievable… almost. "Was it your idea?" Sands asked, his voice practically oozing venom.

"Your eyes? Oh yes. A nice touch, wouldn't you agree?"

Of course now it made sense. After all, why would Barillo bother to go to the trouble of removing his eyes, and then set him free? He'd always wondered about that. Barillo was cruel, yes, but he'd had more important problems to deal with at the time. He'd always wondered why an officer from the Company who hadn't seen anything worth dying over would be worthy of such time. He'd been given time on a day when Barillo had been fresh out of it.

'All for fucking money. Shit in a barrel.' Martin had destroyed his entire way of life… for money. Oh, but it was only business. He couldn't claim that he didn't relate.

Hell, he'd ended many lives. Being an assassin for the Company made sure of that. But asking for another Company officer to be tortured to make extra money? He did have his limits, as far-fetched as it sounded, even to his own mind.

Still, he wasn't going to let Martin shake him. "There are other ways to make some fast cash. Have you ever tried betting on bullfights? I've found it very profitable, if you know how to work it right."

"You're thinking too small."

"Why not just kill me?" Sands asked, his grip tightening on the gun until his knuckles turned white.

"You've always confused your life with your career, Sands. Your mistake," Martin said, taking a step closer.

"You are a traitor," Sands stated, pointing the gun in his direction."You're really not in your right mind if you think you can mess with me, a PsyOps assassin, and get away with it."

"Ah, but you and the PsyOps unit had a bit of a falling out, didn't you? That's why you're here in Mexico, isn't it? What I've done is nothing – nothing – compared to what you've done in your life. Or have you forgotten about what you did to your wife?"

Sands' body went rigid. He hadn't expected Martin to bring her into this. "That was never supposed to happen."

Martin laughed. "What did you think was going to happen?"

"It wasn't my fault. I had nothing to do with it."

"You're the only one who believes that, and I don't even think you truly believe it, but you tell yourself what you have to. Can't have yourself another breakdown, after all."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sands asked, narrowing his calculating eyes at the woman sitting in the far corner of his bedroom. Spread around her, she had a handful of his wigs and disguises, and a pair of scissors.

She paid no attention to him as she continued with what she'd been doing before he'd entered. She took a chunk of hair from the blonde wig she was holding, pulled it taut, then snipped it with the scissors. "Cheap disguises. Deceiver," she mumbled to herself. She pulled another strand taut. "He holds a smoking gun." Snip.

He stood there and watched as, over and over again, she pulled a strand taut, then cut it, mumbling to herself while she performed the repetitive act. From what remained of his wig, and the amount of hair on the floor around her, she'd been at this for some time.

He furrowed his brow, and took a step closer. "Cecelia?" he asked in the most nonchalant tone he could muster.

"A charming murderer," she whispered to herself as she sped up her destruction of the wig.

"I told you not to come here," Sands said, sincerely hoping that what he was seeing wasn't as serious as it appeared to be. When she finally looked at him, he froze on the spot.

It wasn't her eyes looking at him, but Martin's. "She loved you, but all you did was manipulate her," she said through smirking lips.

Jolted back to reality, Sands leveled his gun at Martin. "You know nothing about it."

They couldn't go down this road. He couldn't go down this road.

"Was she good practice?" he asked, and Sands struck out quickly, ramming the gun into Martin's face.

Hearing Martin yelp, Sands was about to pull the trigger, but was stopped by a sharp pain tearing into his already wounded torso. Sands dropped to his knees. Hissing in pain, Sands' left hand went to his side, grasping the handle of the knife Martin had stabbed him with. As the pain tore through him, he was unable to stop Martin from wrenching the gun from his grip.

Gritting his teeth and doubling over, he took a deep breath to steady himself. In his head he counted to three, then jerked the blade out quickly, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out in pain.

Weak, Sands remained on his knees, listening for Martin, but Martin wasn't making any noise. Realizing what Martin was doing, he remained stock still, listening for any movement. He wasn't going to lose it like he did with El. Not this time.

Beginning to feel dizzy, he was forced to steady himself with his right arm in order to stay upright. It was then that he heard a rustle of clothing, ever so soft.

The knife clutched in his hand, he swung towards the faint sound, but nausea was slowing down his reflexes and disorienting him and he hit nothing but air. Freezing in place, he waited for Martin to make a move. "Ah, we got ourselves a game of cat and mouse, but which one of us is the mouse?" Sands drawled, keeping his voice miraculously steady for someone in so much pain. He was thankful that the room was dark. Martin wouldn't get a good look at what bad shape he was in.

It seemed that Martin was thinking along the same lines, because he moved away from Sands. He was moving towards the light switch as a matter of fact.

Sands gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up, doing his best to ignore his body's protest.

"What's the matter? Afraid of the dark?" Sands taunted as he stood, unable to keep the pain from lacing his voice this time.

He stumbled towards Martin as Martin reached out to the light switch, intending to gain the advantage of light. His hand didn't hit the switch though, but went straight into the metal panel, contacting the hot wires Sands had exposed earlier.

Martin let out a startled gasp when the wires shocked him, and Sands took advantage of the small distraction to make his move. The electricity in the wires was not powerful by any means, but it sent a heavy tingle down Martin's spine nonetheless.

Sands swung with the knife again, and this time made contact with flesh. What part of Martin's body he'd pierced, he couldn't say, but he found that he no longer cared. Martin cried out in pain, and Sands grinned maliciously, turning the blade before yanking it out.

Sands grasped the front of Martin's shirt and pushed him down to the ground. Leaning close, he searched Martin for any other weapons. Recovering from the fall, Martin began to struggle, but Sands pressed the sharp blade against his throat and he instantly stilled.

"Your life is in the hands of this psychotic asshole, so I wouldn't move again if I were you," Sands said, his voice dangerously low. "Even after everything you've done to swing things in your favor, you're still no match for me."

Hearing Martin's pain laced breaths beneath him, Sands smiled. "You know, Barillo's doctor of horrors didn't completely take my sight," Sands said, almost offhandedly. He leaned down and whispered into Martin's ear, "I can still see red."

Martin shivered involuntarily as Sands' breath passed over his ear. Feeling the knife begin to cut into his throat, he made a last ditch effort to free himself. He reached up and snatched Sands' sunglasses.

Feeling the sunglasses pulled off, Sands leaned back in surprise, and on reflex his free hand tried to cover his face. Wasting no time, Martin kicked Sands where he'd stabbed him earlier. Pain erupted through Sands' entire body. It was so intense that he was incapable of containing the gasp that escaped his lips as he dropped to the floor.

Martin stood over him. "I have news for you. The man who ripped your eyes out wasn't working for Barillo. Officially, he works for a company that I believe you're familiar with."

Sands whole body froze, the news striking him like a punch in the face. For once, he found himself speechless.

"Get in here!" Martin yelled out, and Sands could hear the sound of his room door opening.

'Oh shit,' Sands thought, trying to get up and failing miserably. The pain was no longer sharp, but dulling quickly, and he knew that was a bad sign. Two hands grabbed him and roughly pushed him into a seated position. "I knew you were too much of a coward to come alone," Sands said, his voice rough. "Kill me, and you ruin yourself."

A hand grabbed him by the hair and snapped his head back violently. Sands held back a cry, not willing to give them the satisfaction.

"So I finally get to see the results of my plan," Martin said, standing in front of him. "I wanted to see for myself on the day it happened, but those damn white coats wouldn't let me."

Sands shivered suddenly, feeling cold all over. He knew he'd lost a lot of blood. He was going into shock. "Resurgam," Sands smiled weakly.

"Not this time," Martin said. His Latin was rusty, but he understood the simple word.

Sands felt the overly familiar prick of a needle as it entered his neck. Had he had the energy, he would have panicked. Instead, he smiled and spoke with a hoarse voice. "In a tunnel of darkness lies a beast. Sharp and made of iron, it leaps for the kill and attacks when pulled back."

Martin chuckled. Sands felt Martin's hand under his chin, tilting his head up. "Is that a riddle, Officer?"

"Kill me and your life is over," Sands said thickly, the drug quickly affecting him in his weakened state. "Likewise, if you don't kill me… you're life is still over." Sands fought to stay awake. He knew it was a futile effort, but instinct always overrode thought in situations like this. It struck him then, what his error had been ever since the Day of the Dead. His lips quirked at the irony of realizing it now. He'd been running on nothing but instinct and that was a dangerous thing. "You're fucked if you do, fucked if you don't."

Right before his slipping hold on reality gave way, he heard Martin say, "Who said anything about killing you?"

* * *

Latin Translations

Resurgam - I will rise again.

Spook Speak Terminology

No spook speak this chapter.


	38. Power Play

**Chapter 38: Power Play**

He felt like shit.

That was Sands' first thought as he came to. He inhaled deeply through his nose, then let the air out slowly, repeating the action a few times to clear his hazy mind. He could still feel the after effects of something, most likely a powerful sedative, running through his bloodstream.

Slowly, he sat up, groaning under his breath when his body protested at the movement. Feeling pain in his side, his hand instinctively went to the wound. His arm felt like it was made out of lead, heavy and sluggish. That didn't surprise him; what did was that someone had taken the time to patch him up.

But why should he be surprised? It was obvious that Martin had never intended to kill him. Torture was just so much more satisfying.

Sitting upright, he felt the cool floor beneath him, and it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was. The hotel room had had carpet, and its bathroom had had a tiled floor. Running a hand across the ground, he decided that it felt a lot like concrete. He fought to calm his nerves, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack stirring in his gut. Damn, how he wished he could just open his eyes and see where he was.

Taking a painfully deep breath, he struggled to get his feet underneath him, but just couldn't seem to get his limbs to work properly.

They'd injected him with some heavy duty shit.

He reached out to find something nearby to help him stand, but there wasn't anything around to support him; at least not within arms' reach. Just sitting upright was exhausting and painful, and he was soon forced to lie back down.

Where was he? How long had he been here? He had no idea. The room was completely silent, save for his breathing, and a faint hum that was most likely emanating from something electric. He figured that is was probably a light.

He sighed, letting his mind clear. His first impulse was to fight, to use force, to kill every last son-of-a-bitch that had taken part in any of this treachery; and hell, why not anyone in the near vicinity, just for good measure? But that was exactly the problem. It was suddenly clear as day, and he wondered why the hell it had taken him so long to realize what he was doing wrong.

He'd thought that he was thinking, but his mind had been setting him up for another fall. He'd been acting on pure impulse; he wanted revenge and he was going to get it. Instinct and impulse could be a good thing, if used in moderation. He knew that. He'd known that for a long time. But somehow his anger towards everything and everyone had clouded his judgment.

Looking back on it, he knew it hadn't been the wisest move to go to Mexico with no plan and no backup. Still, he really hadn't had much of a choice. There was a conspiracy against him, and he was slated to take the fall for someone else's disloyalty. He wasn't about to give up without a fight, and he certainly wasn't going to let the Company cart his ass off to jail, or worse…

But even so, he'd gotten himself caught up in revenge. Revenge on Martin would mean nothing if he fucked himself over in the process. It was time for him to start thinking again - really thinking - instead of acting blindly on instinct. No pun intended.

He needed to stop being the handler. He needed to stop being the assassin. His body couldn't take anymore. He'd pushed it to its breaking point and it was finally giving in. Even when the last of the drugs in his system wore off, he had the feeling that he'd have a hell of a time standing for any length of time, much less fighting his way out of this place. He'd been shot, stabbed, drugged, suspended, and had his eyes ripped out, all in little more than a month. Really, enough is enough.

'Since when has physical force been my only option?'

If he'd had the energy, he would have smacked himself in the head.

'I've been such a fucking idiot.'

He'd been running from the real problem, and that was his fear of failure. Why he hadn't recognized it before was beyond him.

Failure in his life. Failure in his marriage. Failure in his job. Failure in his ability to adapt.

But most importantly, failure of his control.

Sands sighed, frustrated with himself. Did it really have to come to this, a second capture, for him to finally start thinking, and confront his fear head-on?

'What the hell did you devote six years of your life in college to, dickweed? Interior Design?'

He heard the sound of a door opening not far from where he was lying, and even though it probably should have unnerved him, it didn't. Not now.

It was sound. Sound gave him information, and he needed all the information that he could get about his surroundings. Now, not only did he know where the door was, but he knew that he was being watched as well. The timing was far too coincidental. A camera in the room, perhaps?

He heard two sets of footsteps enter the room and approach him. The first set went straight to him, while the second stopped several feet short.

Someone grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him up to a sitting position.

"Get up, Sands. We need to have ourselves a little chat," Martin said, revealing himself to be the one who was standing a few feet away.

"Who's this? Your babysitter?" Sands drawled, his words slightly slurred as he fought off the drugs in his system, and the man hefted him up unceremoniously. Although his mind was clear, his body seemed almost detached; limbs numb and refusing to respond as he was pushed down onto a chair that had been there all along just out of his reach.

So Martin had wanted him lucid, but physically weakened. Sands was beginning to understand this man's style.

'Wonder who's duds I'm wearing?' he thought suddenly, as he realized he wasn't wearing his own clothes anymore; these were much baggier than the things he'd been wearing before. His own clothes were probably covered in blood. Shit, but he was going to miss that 'Bomb Squad' T-shirt.

Martin must have made some sort of gesture for his devoted muscleman to go, because after a moment the man left, closing the door after himself.

Trying his best to shift to a more comfortable position, Sands reached a clumsy hand out in front of him, fingertips quickly coming into contact with the smooth wooden surface of a tabletop. Using the table to prop himself up, he rubbed an index finger along its edge, feeling the lip of the trim.

It was familiar. Small room, cement floor, table, a couple of chairs, faint buzz of a light; he was in a CIA interrogation room. Most likely, he was still in Mexico. So now he was on Martin's turf.

Still, the known was far better than the unknown, and a familiar place was better than an unfamiliar one.

"You must have a lot of questions running through your mind right now." Sands could hear the sound of a chair scraping across cement, echoing in the near-empty room as he spoke.

"You'd be surprised how few questions I actually have for you," Sands said. He held his head up, but didn't bother to turn towards Martin. He thought that he was probably facing the door. It was at that moment that he realized he couldn't feel his sunglasses against his face, and he was surprised that he hadn't noticed their absence immediately.

'Well, fuck it. It's not like he's seeing anything he hasn't already seen.' As a matter of fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the full view of his face could work to his advantage. While not blatantly disturbing to Martin, and in fact probably quite the opposite, the sight could help him wheedle his way into Martin's subconscious in much the same way a virus entered the human body; undetected, unstoppable, and at its very core, destructive.

"Are you really that far gone?" Martin asked, cracking his knuckles. Sands had been around Martin enough to know that the action was a nervous habit. His very presence had always set Martin on edge, and despite his physically weakened state, that still seemed to be the case.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Sands said, his voice steady with the confidence of understanding his enemy. Martin couldn't have known that the very fact that Sands knew he was in a Company interrogation room had empowered him. Even if the headquarters was Martin's turf, this room was his. Despite being a skilled sniper, and his knack for learning foreign languages aside, his true talent had always been messing with the human psyche. Cecelia had learned that the hard way, and Martin was going to learn it to. "I can read you like an open book," Sands drawled.

"You can't read an open book."

"I beg to differ. Luckily for me, translating you into Braille is a snap."

"You have to be wondering what I'm going to do with you."

"Right now I've only got one question for you." Sands smirked. "Can I bum a smoke?"

Martin barked out a dry laugh. "You've got balls. I'll give you that. No. You're not here to be comfortable. I'm the one in control."

"No, you only think you are," Sands said, as surely as if it were fact. "I'm going to have a bitchin' time messing with your head."

"It's amazing to me that the Company would keep you around. You're an obvious sociopath."

Sands finally turned to face Martin, flashing him a feral grin, before answering. "Is that your professional diagnosis? Are you sure I'm a sociopath, and not a psychopath, or antisocial, or narcissistic, or just plain fucked in the head?"

"Same difference," Martin said offhandedly, and Sands could imagine his shoulders shrugging in dismissal.

Sands leaned forward, forearms on the table supporting his weight. "I see that you have no idea what you're talking about." Sands smirked in an all-knowing sort of way, then mimicked a shrug that he'd seen Martin give on several occasions. "But let's stretch the suspension of disbelief a bit and pretend that you do know what you're talking about. Tell me, since your keen ability to diagnose my state of mental health knows no bounds, which subtype of sociopath am I?"

"It's all the same fucking thing," Martin grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

Sands leaned back in his own chair and crossed his arms, thankful that his body was a little more willing to obey his demands. Martin was so unerringly predictable in his mannerisms that it made imitating him easy. "Am I common, alienated, aggressive, or dissocial?" He paused a moment before heaving an irritated sigh. "Just pick one."

"I don't care which one you are."

His face a mask of stone, Sands replied, "I do. A small hint: don't pick common. I could never be that."

"Why ask me? Are you having some sort of identity crisis?" Martin asked, quietly uncrossing his arms and shifting in his chair.

"Do you want me to be having an identity crisis?"

"You can't play your little head games with me," Martin said, his voice low, but his temper still firmly in check.

"I can play my little head games with anyone. That's the beauty of them."

"I'll break you, Sands. You're here so that I can do just that."

"You're doing a bang-up job so far. I can feel myself losing brain cells as we speak. Can I have a smoke?"

"I already told you, no," Martin said, and Sands had to give him credit for his patience. Martin knew him well enough to expect this sort of thing, but Sands knew from experience that he could wear down even the most patient man eventually.

"I just wanted to see if you'd changed your mind," Sands said offhandedly.

"And you could have sprouted a new set of eyes to see that, too."

"Cute. Amateurish, but cute."

"Bring her in!" Martin said loudly.

'Yup, definitely a camera in the room,' Sands thought to himself, and he had a bad feeling that he knew exactly who 'she' was.

"I thought you might act bull-headed because of some half-assed plan of yours. Just thought you'd like to know that she never did get to the dead drop."

"I'm crushed. Whatever am I going to do now?" Sands asked theatrically, landing his arm heavily on his chest in mock fright. "Especially since she was never supposed to go to a dead drop in the first place." He was far from worried about that, at least so far. After all, the whole reason for having more than one person with evidence was in preparation for something like this. Ava was not only the easiest target that he'd set out, she only had copies of the original papers.

"Cut the crap, Sands. I know she had to be dropping something off to someone."

Sands cocked an eyebrow. So they hadn't even found the envelope he'd given her? Maybe Ava was a bit more experienced than he'd originally given her credit for.

"She was my original chauffeur," Sands offered by way of explanation. He wondered how long he'd been here.

The door opened again and he heard the unsteady click of high heels on concrete, as if Ava had been shoved through the door. He was positive it was her, since there was really no one else it could be.

"Hiya, Sugar," Sands greeted her, never turning his attention away from Martin while she seemed to catch her balance.

She must have got a good look at him then, because she gasped in what sounded like a mixture of horror and shock, delivering Sands his first real ego blow since he'd woken up here. He was probably white as a sheet too, resembling one of those skulls from the Day of the Dead. Wonderful.

"Oh, damn. Did I just let the cat out of the bag?" Martin asked.

"Well, it was meowing quite loudly," Sands said, trying to be as blasé about it as possible.

"Oh my God," Ava whispered, approaching the table slowly. "Who did this to you?"

"I know how much you like to toot your own horn, Martin, so I'll let you answer that," Sands said. His hand unconsciously tugged at the hair tucked behind his right ear, letting it fall across his face.

Ava's attention snapped back to Martin. "You did this?" she asked in angry disbelief.

Before Martin could say anything, Sands answered. "Only in spirit. He's far too squeamish and cowardly to do it himself. He just dreamed it up."

"You're just bitter because I got away with it," Martin said to Sands.

Sands uncrossed his arms. "Ah, but defeat isn't bitter if you sprinkle dirty revenge on it."

"Considering I am the one in complete control, and you can barely stand, if you can stand at all, that threat really scares me."

"It should. I never make a threat that I can't carry out."

"For a supposedly brilliant man, you're very stupid," Martin stated.

Sands laughed outright at Martin's comment, and Ava gaped at him as if he were insane.

"Well, the dumber you think I am the better," Sands said, still chuckling. Little did Martin know how true that statement actually was. Sands jabbed a thumb in Ava's direction. "Why bring my seeing-eye dog into this?"

"Insurance."

Sands cocked a dark eyebrow. "Well, you'd best take out another policy. Your diagnosis was that I'm a sociopath, remember?"

"Was she the one who broke into my office?" Martin demanded.

Sands tilted his head to the side, frowning. "What?"

"Who did you send to search through my files?"

Sands leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "Got a bit of a mole situation, have you? Nasty, destructive little critters, moles are… oh, but I don't need to tell you that."

"You're responsible for it."

"How?" Sands asked in challenge, knowing that Martin couldn't answer the question. He intended on planting a small seed of doubt in Martin's mind. With tender love and care, that seed would grow into full-fledged paranoia.

"Was it this woman, or the Mariachi you picked up?"

Although Sands inwardly damned Jackson to hell, he kept up his cocky front. He tapped the bridge of his nose with a fingertip. "You're sniffing in the wrong direction. What you should be asking me right now is, 'When is my unseen shadow going to swallow me whole?' You have a cigarette?"

"Jesus, no! You just don't give up," Martin said with exasperation, still a bit curious as to just what 'shadow' Sands was talking about.

"Something you should have thought of before you fucked me over."

"It was the Mariachi, wasn't it? You sent him to gather evidence?" Martin pressed on, determined to get an answer.

"Well, that's a far-out little theory you've got there, but you're overlooking the fact that the Mariachi wouldn't know how to get into headquarters without being caught."

"I'm not overlooking it. I'm sure you told him."

"I told him the entire layout of headquarters? Even I don't have the security and layout of the entire complex in my photographic memory." He waited for Martin to say something, but Martin was silent, obviously trying to think of an explanation.

"I think you've got a rat living in your walls," Sands added smoothly. "Illius me paenitet, Dux." He paused. "You were a rich kid, weren't you?"

Sands' off the wall question snared Ava's attention, and caught Martin equally off guard.

At Martin's silence, he knew that he'd guessed right. "I see I nailed that one on the first try," Sands continued. "Should I continue?"

"No. We're not talking about my damn childhood."

Sands ignored him, a hand lazily tracing patterns on the tabletop. "You were raised by a series of babysitters and maids. Your parents were too busy with their jobs and social lives to show you how much they cared. But don't worry, I'm sure they loved you, despite the fact that you're a sick bastard through and through."

"Shut the fuck up, Sands. This has nothing to do with anything."

"You liked to torture small animals as a child, didn't you? You liked seeing things in pain. You still do."

"And you're saying you didn't?" Martin asked challengingly.

"Torture small animals? No. I never got any jollies out of torturing something that I knew was inferior. There's no real challenge in that." Sands tilted his head. "But eventually, torturing and killing your pets got a little dull, didn't it? You moved on to people, then. Ah yes, much better prey." Sands ran his tongue across the front of his teeth, seeming to study Martin despite the impossibility of it. "You sure love to watch pain… but deep down you're scared of it. You don't ever want to experience it yourself. That's why you never put yourself in danger," Sands leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "You feed on pain, but you fear it at the same time. Pain is what makes your whole world go round," Sands said, making a circle in the air with his hand. "That's pretty fucked up, if you ask me."

"You got that shit off my 201."

Sands snorted, and sat back in his chair. "Yeah, right under the education section of your 201 it reads: 'Enjoys pain. Is seriously screwed in the head.'" Sands gave him a look, as if to say, 'you're a complete moron'.

"I meant my family stuff. The rest isn't even close."

"If that's what you have to tell yourself. Got a cancer stick?"

Martin pounded his fist on the table, causing Ava to jump slightly. Sands had been expecting an outburst any moment, so he hadn't even flinched. Even when a pack of cigarettes pegged him straight in the forehead, Sands didn't seem surprised. He immediately bent down and searched for the pack, his fingers finding it without much trouble.

"You have no right to call me a sick bastard!" Martin said, his voice not quite shouting, but warning that he was close to reaching his limit. Dropping his voice lower, Martin added, "I've seen your 201 too."

"No, you haven't," Sands said with certainty, pulling a cigarette out of the pack. "Got a light?"

Sands heard the sound of something hitting the ground several feet away.

"Go fetch."

"Your hospitality leaves something to be desired," Sands informed him. He heard Ava begin to get it for him, but stopped her with an abrupt hand signal. With some effort, he pushed himself up to a standing position. Leaning heavily on the table for support, he grabbed the lighter. By the time he collapsed back in his chair, he was weak and out of breath.

It was amazing what he'd go through for a cigarette.

"The hell I haven't," Martin said, cracking his knuckles again as he turned the conversation back to the subject of 201 files.

"I see you still haven't completely perfected the art of lying," Sands said offhandedly, lighting up. His repetitive use of the word _see_ was no accident. Coupled with the visual of his empty sockets, and the fact that Martin couldn't use the word against him, it was probably becoming rather annoying.

"Better enjoy that cigarette. Where I'm sending you, I don't think they'll let you smoke."

Taking a long drag, Sands faked a shudder. "Then that's just not the place for me."

Martin seemed to come to the conclusion that his current tactic wasn't working, and switched to a new one. "It's really hilarious to hear you tell me how sick I am, and how I get off on pain. But you're just like me. You can't deny it."

Sands began to tap a rendition of the 'Star-Spangled Banner' on the tabletop with his forefinger, pretending to think about what Martin said. "I deny it," he said at last.

Martin shook his head. "An ex-assassin telling me that he doesn't enjoy pain? Now I really have heard everything."

"Tu es mon chevre d'amour," Sands said, amusing himself more than anyone else. He could bet that Martin hadn't heard that. Taking another long drag of his cigarette, he smirked. "You're surprisingly dense. That's why your time is almost up. You'd have to take a walk inside my head to figure out what makes me tick, but I don't think you could handle the trip. I'm a completely different brand of psycho."

"If you don't enjoy pain, then how do you explain what you did to your wife?"

Ava's eyebrow rose at the mention of a wife. Sands didn't seem like the marrying type; yet another surprise. Sands remained his usual unreadable self, continuing to tap out the national anthem as he puffed on his cigarette. Weird man. She decided that he was either brilliant or insane… quite possibly it was a combination of both.

"Have you been able to figure out what type of sociopath I am?" Sands asked suddenly, and the hasty change of topic didn't go unnoticed.

"What's the matter? Did I hit a sore spot? Can't think about your wife?"

Sands inhaled deeply, letting the smoke escape from his lips slowly. Martin wanted to use his weakness against him, and admittedly, Cecelia had been, and always would be, a bit of a weakness. "Your logic is tragically flawed, Martin. You're obviously trying to make me feel guilty about what happened to my wife, yet earlier you claimed that I was a sociopath. If you believe I'm a sociopath, then why try and make me feel guilty? I'm not capable of it."

"You had a mental breakdown after she went insane. She must have had an effect on you."

"We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you ever?" Sands asked, cigarette bouncing on his lips as he spoke. "Never mind. I'm living with the answer to that one."

Martin smiled at Sands' admission. "Of course you are. What possessed you to come back here in the first place, anyway? Was it some insane desire for revenge? An attempt to save your career? It's beyond saving; you're blind. What use could the CIA possibly have for you now?"

Sands' tapping ceased, his lips tightening into a thin line. "More use than they'll have for you," he said dangerously. "I came back because I wanted to watch you fall… figuratively speaking, of course." Flicking the ash off his cigarette, and leaning forward in his chair, he continued. "They will get you, because I have already gotten you. You just don't know it yet. Sometimes, it pays to be paranoid."

"It didn't pay for you," Martin pointed out bluntly, refusing to take Sands' bait.

Sands smiled mirthlessly but otherwise ignored the jibe. "Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's coming to get you," he said in a sing-song.

"Have you played enough of your games? I think it's time we talked about what I plan to do with you."

Sands shrugged as he took another puff. "You had to have been expecting this. After all, I have an MS in experimental psychology. If you'd really seen my 201, you'd know that. I never tire of games. It's what I do."

Ava gave Sands an appraising look. _'A Master of Science degree? He's full of surprises.'_

Sands tilted his head to the side. "You still can't quite decide what my motivation is, can you? It's not that hard to figure out, really. I'd think that it's written all over me. You must really be blind to that sort of thing."

Ignoring his last comment, Martin shot a glance at Ava. "Ava, get over here," Martin said, motioning her over with an angry jab of his finger.

His eyes told her that it was not a suggestion, and she joined them, coming to stand beside Martin. She knew the value of picking her battles.

Martin grabbed hold of her hand, roughly pulling her over to Sands' side.

"Need her help?" Sands asked, amusement lacing his voice. To be honest, Martin did know something about interrogation, and wasn't someone who flew off the handle. He was an extremely patient man, and an experienced officer, who'd probably done his fair share of questioning. But he had one fatal flaw in his style; he couldn't read people, so he just kept switching tactics until one seemed to work. It probably worked on most people, but then Sands wasn't most people. They'd been at this for at least half an hour now, and Martin still hadn't gotten any information out of him, or covered exactly what he planned on doing with him. _'Maybe I should throw the dog a bone.' _He wanted to stretch Martin to his limit, but he didn't want the man to actually snap.

Martin grabbed hold of Sands' jaw and turned his head so that he and Ava were facing each other… or at least, that's what Sands assumed. _'Shit.'_ Now this tactic he didn't like at all.

Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Sands grasped Martin's wrist tightly, wrenching himself from the man's grip. "Let's not be rude to the lady," Sands said in a bored tone, and this time he wasn't sure if it fooled anyone.

"Don't like to be touched?" Martin asked, like an animal that could smell fear. He forced Ava's hand to Sands' cheek. Sands went rigid under her touch, and Ava tried to withdraw, but Martin still held her hand tightly and wouldn't let her pull away.

Although Sands wasn't doing much to show it, Ava had the distinct feeling that this physical contact was far more disturbing to Sands than anything else that had been thrown his way so far. The way his whole body stiffened under her touch and his jaw locked was proof of that.

"You were always such a vain man," Martin snickered, forcing Ava's hand to move up Sands' face.

Sands forced a smile, taking a long draw. "Why would you think that a caress from a hot woman would bother me?"

Ava felt her face redden for reasons she couldn't begin to explain.

"She could be ugly as a dog and you wouldn't know the difference."

Ava's fingers now touching the edge of his right eye socket, he couldn't help but flinch. Not only were they still extremely sensitive, but the feeling of a finger probing the area was both nauseating and disturbing to him. He inhaled sharply. _'Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it,' _his mind chanted, knowing that he needed to keep up his stony exterior as long as possible.

Ava again tried to break free of Martin's grip, but to her surprise, Sands' hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. His grip right below Martin's, he held her hand fast and as Martin pushed her farther, Sands' grip tightened with strength she didn't think possible for a man so badly hurt and drugged.

But it was clear from his painful grip on her that Sands didn't want her to pull away, and it was as if he was silently telling her 'I've had worse'. So, fighting her own queasy stomach, she surrendered her hand to Martin. If Sands could withstand the worst of it, she could take the rest. It didn't stop her from squeezing her eyes shut, however.

Sands swallowed, fighting down the bile that wanted to rise in his throat. When he was sure he had complete control of his voice, he asked, "Do I resemble your therapist, Martin? Because I could swear that I just slipped into one of your therapy sessions."

Martin dropped Ava's hand and threw up his arms in disgust.

"Like any other therapist, I'm not free," Sands quipped.

Ava immediately began to move her hand away, but Sands wasn't letting her go, only allowing her to lower her hand from his face. "Don't move, Sugar," he said, and it was an order, not a request.

"What do you think you're doing?" Martin asked, and it sounded as if he was ready to call for backup if necessary.

Paying Martin no mind, Sands languidly ran the full length of his hand down Ava's face twice, feeling out her features. It was an odd thing – trying to piece together someone's face on touch alone. He'd never tried to do it before, and he was surprising himself by doing it now. It was almost like creating a face from a smattering of magazine clippings that had come from thousands of different pictures – choosing an eye here and a nose there and pasting them together in an attempt to construct a complete face. As he traced her features, he couldn't quite get a grasp on his own mental image of her, and thought that perhaps it was something that took practice to perfect. Even so, he thought that he had a general idea of what she looked like. He didn't think she was drop dead gorgeous, but he was willing to bet money that she wasn't a troll, either.

Letting her go, he pushed her hand away from him, dismissing her without a second thought. He smirked and turned his attention to Martin. "If she's ugly as a dog, then I still have eyes," he drawled coolly.

Shaken by the contact with Sands, Ava took a couple steps back from both men, wrapping her arms around herself in discomfort.

"You'd best smile. Tomorrow will be worse," Sands added, giving Martin a shit-eating grin. Sands moved to take another puff of his burned down cigarette, but Martin snatched it up quickly and stubbed it out on the table.

"I'm glad you're taking your own advice," Martin growled. "Because I intend to commit you."

"Sending me to the land of magical white jackets, are you?"

"Don't worry, I'll send you to the same place you sent your wife. I'm sure it's nice."

"Oh, it's choice. They even let you go outside and smell the grass every once in a while. Only the best for my wife." Even though fear crept up his spine, Sands refused to lose control. Amazingly, it wasn't as hard as it had been a day ago. It helped that he knew Martin was screwed. The fact that Martin didn't intend to kill him was a very good thing, and gave Tom and Cam time to pass on all his evidence to the proper bigwigs.

"Did you care about her at all?" Martin asked, and it sounded as if he really was curious to hear the answer.

Sands raised an eyebrow before leaning forward, pushing the table away from himself ever so slightly. Ah, so it wasn't attached to the floor. "You want me to get real? Fine. I fucked with my wife in more ways than one; then I committed her and threw away the key so I could book it to Mexico and play spy," Sands said, his voice icy and devoid of emotion. He knew that he should have said her name, it would have made what he'd said even more cruel, but he just couldn't quite bring himself to do it, sure that his voice would falter if he did.

Ava involuntarily shivered. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Could Sands have really done all that on purpose? It was obvious he was dangerous… but was he evil? Or was it just another one of his acts? It was pointless for her to try and read him; reading him was like trying to read a blank sheet of paper.

Even Martin seemed to be taken aback by Sands' admission, and Sands took the opportunity to get to the point. "Why don't we cut to the chase? You didn't keep me here to catechize me about my love life, or who broke into your office. You have security cameras and eyes; why don't you use them both, if you haven't already." Sands paused. "There's only one question that you've been dying to ask me since you set foot in this room."

"And what's that?" Martin asked challengingly, sitting back down in the chair across from Sands.

"Do you have the twenty million pesos from the coup d'état, Officer Sands?" Sands said knowingly, hearing the telltale knuckle crack that suggested Martin was irritated. "The answer is, yes. I do."

"So where is it?"

Sands leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. Whatever drug they'd given him had all but worn off now. The detached feeling had been quickly replaced by the pain in his side and the throbbing in his skull. "Well you know, it's a funny thing. Two million US dollars may not be able to give me back what you took from me, but it will sure make being blind a lot easier to live with. When I think about it, two million bucks isn't nearly enough, but I'll take what I can get."

"You're going to give me that money."

Hook, line and sinker.

Smirking, Sands shook his head. "Not without getting something in return."

"Would you like to be deaf too? Maybe paralyzed? How 'bout I don't take any more of your vital senses and we call it even?"

Sands face hardened, knowing that if he went down that road, there would be no coming back for him. One of Sands' legs kicked up without warning, connecting forcefully with the underside of the table. It had the weight of a fold-up banquet table, and tipped over easily, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that bounced off the walls. It must have hit Martin on the way down like he'd hoped, because Martin let out an angry yelp.

"How generous of you," Sands drawled, before Martin could say anything. He wondered if Martin and Ava were surprised that he'd made no move to escape. But he was no fool. Trying to escape from a high-security CIA headquarters, blind and weaponless, was not a realistic expectation. "But you have to take me with you when you pick up the money."

"The hell I do," Martin protested, standing the table back up.

"If I'm not there, the people I left the money with might have a bit of a problem giving it to you. That might be… painful… for you. So what's it going to be, Chief?"

Martin didn't answer right away, probably suspecting that Sands had something planned.

Sands smiled like a cat that had eaten the canary, waiting patiently for Martin's answer. He already knew what it would be before Martin said it. The man was a greedy bastard. He didn't need the two million… which really wasn't all that much when one played in the big leagues like he did. Truthfully, twenty million pesos converted to US currency didn't even break one million, nine hundred. But Martin wouldn't agree to go through with this because he wanted the money – no, Martin would go through with it just to take the cash away from Sands.

Like he'd really enjoy a little less than two million while in the loony bin. What was he going to spend it on? Extra padding for his cell?

Every choice Martin made depended on whether or not it would bring pain to someone else. Martin had quite a twisted, vicious temperament that would, in the end, be his demise. Sands intended to make sure his end came sooner, rather than later.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock… you really are running short on time Martin. Those long shadows are going to reach your doorstep soon."

"Fine. But you try anything, Sands, and your hot little tart over there will be the one to suffer, and if you don't care about her, then I'm sure you care about the use of your legs."

* * *

Latin Translations

Illius me paenitet, Dux. - I'm sorry about that, Chief.

French Translations

Tu es mon chevre d'amour. – You are my goat of love.


	39. The Unforseen

**Chapter 39 – The Unforeseen**

"You're a lousy host," Sands said, shaking his head in dismay. "Didn't anyone tell you that threatening your guests with paralysis is rude?" He turned to Ava. "I hope he's treating you better, Sugar."

"He's an asshole," she quickly replied.

Martin ignored the barbs sent his way. Judging from the creak of Martin's chair, Sands guessed that he was leaning forward. "Answer something for me. What does it take to make you angry?" Martin asked, slight curiosity lacing his tone. "I set you up, I _betrayed_ you… I had your eyes ripped out! What the hell does it take?" Martin demanded, his voice steadily rising in aggravation.

"I can't get angry with a crazy person. I can only accept that you're a nut-job and tolerate you as best I can," Sands said smoothly, pushing away the hair that had fallen in front of his face. "What? Am I not following the script you wrote?" Sands asked, arching an eyebrow. "I have to warn you, I'm at my best when I improvise."

"I fucking ruined your career! Doesn't that piss you off?"

The door opened, and someone stepped inside the room. Martin grunted as he hefted himself out of his chair and went over to the person.

Sands heard a woman's whisper, though it was pitched so low that even his heightened hearing could only just pick up what was being said. "I got the tape," she said quietly.

"Good." There was a rustle of clothing, and the woman left.

Sands sighed, wondering what new ammunition Martin had just received. "You ruined my career? News to me. My old job is still waiting for me back in Virginia."

"Even if you wanted to go back to that job, and I know that you don't, you're going to have a hard time going to work everyday when you're committed."

"There's no hospital, mental or otherwise, that I can't get out of," Sands said, pointing at Martin. "I could be your therapist; if I'd chosen that side of the profession. Luckily for everyone, I didn't. Do you know why I didn't, Chief?"

"Because you'd be more messed up than your patients?"

"No. Because I like screwing with the mind more than I like fixing it." Sands smirked. "That's counter-productive for a shrink… although I could make a shit-load of money that way." Sands chuckled as he thought about it, propping his feet on the table. "Actually, that could be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. I'd make megabucks with a racket like that."

"You can't take me seriously, can you?" Martin asked, clearly tiring of their banter, and growing increasingly irritated by Sands' flippancy. "Do you know how screwed you are?"

"Do you?" Sands countered. "Don't confuse indifference with incomprehension." He paused, tipping his chair back and balancing it precariously on two legs. "You seem to be at a loss. I'm disappointed. You thought I'd be a total wreck by now. You counted on it. That was a big mistake."

"Give me time," Martin said, and Sands heard him walk around the table, coming to stand in front of him. "You're tougher than I thought you were. But I'm not through with you yet."

"Are you going to rough me up?"

"I did some digging into your history."

Sands took a drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "Hope you had a big shovel."

"How many departments have you gone through since joining the Company?" Martin chuckled. "Three? Four? You've worked as an interrogations officer, a psychologist, an assassin, a handler… I think that must be a record."

"News flash: I don't play well with others. Even so, your numbers are wrong."

The rickety table groaned in protest as Martin sat down on it. "Stop the act." Martin tapped Sands' shin with the toe of his boot. "Don't you remember who you are anymore?"

Sands spread his arms wide. "No need. I am whoever I need to be at any given time. It's very efficient that way."

"You want to know what the really sad thing is? No one will miss you. That's how I'll get away with committing you. No one will fight to get you out. No one cares."

Sands forced the ring of truth in Martin's words from his mind. "I'm not so sure about that. I've already missed this month's rent. I'm pretty sure my landlord cares."

Martin laughed and dug into his pocket. "That's pathetic."

"Sticks and stones. You really don't have time for all this gabbing. Is it tea hour? Do we need to spend an allotted amount of time passing around mindless scuttlebutt like some bored housewives? I was under the impression that you were after my twenty million pesos."

"Triggers," Martin said, seemingly apropos of nothing, completely ignoring Sands' last statement.

The word caused an uneasy feeling to stir in Sands' gut, and he hesitated a moment as he pushed the unsettled sensation aside. "Careful. A change of topic like that can give you whiplash," he drawled, hiding his growing discomfort by taking another puff of his cigarette.

"Like I couldn't put it all together. You experimented with mind control, didn't you?"

Sands raised a quizzical eyebrow. "The government doesn't condone or participate in human experimentation; mind control included."

"That's a wonderful line of government bullshit you just recited. What about MK-Ultra?" Martin asked.

Sands almost smirked. He wouldn't have believed his line of bullshit either, but Martin certainly wasn't worthy of the truth. "MK-Ultra didn't exist. However, it makes a nice bedtime story for the kids at the Farm." Sands tapped his index finger against his cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the floor. "MK-Ultra was supposedly implemented in the fifties? Do I look that old?"

"I'm not talking about the original MK-Ultra. In the mid-nineties you were one of the top psychologists working on a very similar project, weren't you?" Martin stood, and began pacing in a small circle around Sands' chair.

"Maybe I should make a recording for you." Sands paused. He lifted his feet off the table and let them drop back to the ground. His next words were pronounced slowly, as if talking to a child. "The government doesn't participate in human…"

"That's what happened to Cecelia Sands, isn't it?" Martin interrupted.

Sands' froze in mid-motion, cigarette halfway to his lips. He wasn't sure what'd hit him harder; hearing her name out loud, or how close to the truth Martin actually was. He stuck the cigarette between his lips. Realizing how tightly his hand was clutching the lighter, he tucked it back into his pocket, forcing a laugh. "What are you implying, exactly? I not only fucked with her head, but I actually got paid to do it?"

"Yeah."

'_So close to the truth, and yet so wrong.' _Sands rolled his stiff neck, and it cracked with an audible pop. He hurt all over, and the pain was growing by the minute. Aware that it would make his story more believable, he exhaled slowly, and a part of his emotionless mask seemed to leave with the air in his lungs.

"You want to know what I did when I worked for PsyOps at their Virginia base? Propaganda. Wartime propaganda. Do you know what I found out?" He heard Martin snort in disbelief, but continued after taking another puff of his cigarette. "If I gave a guy the correct information for seven days, he'd believe the incorrect information on the eighth day _."_ Sands smiled tightly, not intimidated by Martin's vulture-like circling. "Creating bullshit is my gig, and that's why I'm so freaking good at it. No bullshit."

"You're the best." Martin stopped his pacing, standing in front of Sands again. "I know you're lying. I have proof."

"Oh… I never lie," Sands said, somehow managing to keep a straight face while he said it.

Martin laughed. "How stupid do you think I am?"

"The jury is still out on that. I haven't decided if you're a fool, an idiot or a moron." Sands heard a click, like the sound of a button being pressed, and knew he was right when he heard the static of a tape recording fill the room.

An unfamiliar man began speaking with a New England accent, and a tone of voice that suggested he'd practiced the art of indifference all his life.

Shrink. Sands barely managed to keep himself from squirming nervously in his chair, something he rarely, if ever, felt compelled to do. '_Please, no.'_

"…now, I want you to tell me about your husband," the shrink said.

'_No. No. No…' _Sands' mind chanted, not able to accept the voice he knew was coming.

A woman's voice spoke next, sounding tired and small. "He's made out of paper; one side's a picture, the other side's a blank."

'_Oh, God. Cecelia.'_ A feeling of nausea swept over him, and he fought the urge to snatch at the recorder; he wanted to scream, demand that Martin stop this… to completely pummel the sick bastard right where he stood.

But he didn't do any of those things. Not because he didn't want to, but because it was exactly what Martin expected. Instead, he bit the inside of his mouth; the pain and taste of blood a small distraction from the voices, which were threatening to strip away his carefully crafted mask of indifference.

"I am the mask you wear," Sands said under his breath, flicking the ash off his burned down cigarette, as the doctor on the tape asked Cecelia to explain herself.

"He's not real," Cecelia said in a hushed tone, as if confiding a state secret… and in a strange way, she was. "We were strangers that lived in a cardboard house. But I tore it down," she said, her voice faltering. "I tore down our house! Why did I tear down our house?"

Sands felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him. His hands trembled as he fought to forget, and he quickly moved to take another drag of his cigarette, in hopes of covering up his growing anxiety. "What is this? A stroll down memory lane? Stop this. Get on with it."

Martin didn't say anything, damn it, knowing that the silence would bother him.

"Why did you set your house on fire?" the doctor asked calmly, as if he were asking why she didn't tie her shoe that morning.

"He said I changed, but I didn't. He was the one who changed! That's why he had to be burned and turned to ash. It wasn't him. He wasn't real anymore; he was a copy."

Sands throat involuntarily constricted. _'Goddamn it. Pull yourself together.' _The recording was a brutal reminder that he'd never once gone to visit her after she'd been committed; not even a phone call to the shrink to check up on how she was doing. He kept telling himself that he didn't care. Why should he visit her when she clearly wasn't the woman he used to know? He didn't regret it; he had to move on with his life, and he did.

'_So why the hell does she continue to haunt me?'_

"You didn't burn him, Cecelia," the doctor corrected her, after a brief pause.

Sands swallowed thickly, head lowered as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Even now, it was hard for him to listen to her like this.

"Yes I did!" she screamed suddenly; her voice so loud that it made the recording pop.

Sands jolted in his chair, surprised by her sudden outburst. That hadn't even sounded like the woman he remembered from five years ago.

The door to the room opened again, a reminder that they were still at the CIA base, and a man with a thick Texan accent asked, "Can I speak with you for a sec, boss?"

Martin hit the stop button on the recorder, cutting off the doctor's next question. "Not now," he said, clearly unhappy about the man's interruption.

"Uh… this really ain't somethin' you can put a hold on," the Texan said.

Sands assumed that Martin made some sort of gesture to the man, because the door shut quickly. "You're as white as a sheet," Martin commented, turning his attention back to Sands. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Sands ground his teeth as he reigned in his anger, but said nothing as Martin left. He was trying to determine whether or not there was any possibility of turning this situation to his advantage. He took one last pull on his cigarette before slowly grinding it out on the table with a forced calm.

"Sands?"

He turned towards Ava's voice. She'd been so quiet, he'd almost forgotten that she was in the room.

He wearily massaged the back of his neck in a futile attempt to rub away the tension that hearing Cecelia's voice had brought on. "Yeah?"

"You OK?" she asked hesitantly.

"Peachy." Sands draped an arm over the back of his chair. It was difficult for him to tell how Ava was taking all this; her voice sounded calm, all things considered, but that could be misleading. She was in this as deep as he was now. There was no way Martin was going to let her live with all this information. "Life's not all tequila and skittles. Sometimes you have to take the nuts, too."

She started towards him, stopping a few feet away, as if afraid he would bite. "What are we going to do?"

Motioning her closer with a crook of his finger, he waited until she stood next to him before answering. "This room has eyes and ears. Thula. Ingonyama ilele." He waved his hand in dismissal, and silence settled in the room as she took the hint. Deciding to enjoy it while it lasted, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew what Martin's urgent business was about. Taking a drag, he wondered how long it would take Martin to figure out where he'd gone so wrong.

About a minute later, the door burst open, quickly accompanied by Martin's angry voice. "What did you do?"

Sands only answer was a sly smile as he took another puff of his fresh cigarette.

"Tell me, or you won't be walking again."

Sands face sobered quickly, and he shook his head. "Cecelia… that wasn't my doing," he said, pretending that they were still on that subject. He knew damn well that wasn't what Martin was referring to, but he decided to play ignorant for as long as possible. It would tick Martin off. "Even if there was a mind control program, and I'm not saying there was, but **if** there was… why would I offer my wife as a test subject? The fact is, she…"

"I'm not talking about that," Martin cut in, his fist slamming down on the table in frustration. "Who did you tell?"

Sands furrowed his brow in confusion. He hesitated before answering, pretending to think over Martin's question. Finally, he shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He paused, his eyebrow's creeping up slowly. "Oh… did you just get your 'you've been screwed' notification call? Those really blow."

'_Damn, I should have been an actor.' _

Martin went over to Ava, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her towards the door. Opening it, he told someone standing on the other side to, 'take care of her' before slamming it shut.

"You're going to regret this," he said, in a tone that Sands hadn't heard from him before; warning mixed with insane glee.

"Your sadism is showing. So, are you going to talk me to death, or do this right?" Sands flicked his cigarette at Martin, aiming as best he could. There was no telling if he'd hit his target or not. "Nevertheless, I still don't know what you're talking about." He leaned forward in his chair. "I bet there are plenty of people on this base who do, though."

Unable to sit still any longer, Sands stood up slowly, trying to minimize the inevitable head rush as he did so. He went over to Martin, stopping beside him. "Who can you trust, Officer?" he asked quietly.

Martin shoved him back, but he easily caught his balance and laughed. "Surround yourself with traitors, and eventually you'll be betrayed."

"I wasn't. You did this!"

Turning his back on Martin, Sands retraced his steps back to the chair. "I'd love to take the credit for this. I really would." Sands paused, then turned round and smiled mischievously. "So I think I will."

Sensing the shit was about to hit the fan quicker than he had originally anticipated, possibilities of how to get out of this mess ran through his mind. With the communication delay between the camera guy and the door men, he had about twenty seconds before Martin's goons would come to their boss's rescue.

'_Twenty seconds,' _Sands thought. There were a lot of things he could do in twenty seconds.

He just had to pick the right thing. Easier said than done.

Judging by Martin's reaction, OOS must be on their way to the base, having listened to the recorded conversation. Good ol' Tom.

He listened to Martin approach from behind, and steeled himself for what was no doubt coming. He grasped the back of the chair just as Martin jabbed a needle into the base of his neck.

Sands didn't give Martin any time to inject whatever drug was in the syringe, throwing an elbow back into Martin's face. Sands knew he'd hit his mark when he heard a loud crack; he'd broken Martin's nose.

Martin reeled back in shock, and Sands didn't waste any time. He grabbed the back of the chair, and spun around, putting every ounce of strength he had left into the swing. The chair slammed into the side of Martin's head.

Martin went down hard on impact, and Sands hoped that he'd be out for at least a minute.

'_Ten seconds.' _Sands dashed to the door, the chair still in his hand, ignoring the pain in his side. He jammed the door with the folding chair, then locked it too, just for the hell of it.

Pulling the syringe out of his neck, he kept it handy as he knelt beside Martin. _'Twenty seconds.' _

Martin mumbled incoherently under his breath, still trying to shake off the blow. His men outside the room began to push on the door, trying to force it open.

Sands found the officer's gun and pulled the hammer back. "Interfere and your boss is toast," he drawled, for the benefit of the goons listening on camera.

He rolled Martin over, so he was lying on his stomach. The movement seemed to wake Martin, since he instantly tried to get up. He froze, however, when the feeling of a cold needle piercing his skin instantly cut through his hazy consciousness.

"Let me tell you how it is, Martin. I've got your gun, your wonder drug, and your goons searching for a clue. I did all this blind and weaponless; it took me twenty seconds." A twisted grin flashed across Sands' lips. "Now, sing for me. What's inside this particular syringe? The psychotic? Or the paralyzing agent?"

"You do anything…" He paused and cleared his throat. "… my men will kill you."

"I'm quaking in my… uh, uh, uh," Sands warned as he felt Martin try and move underneath him. "I'm guessing by the way you froze before that you're really not too keen on me pumping this shit into your system."

The sounds of his men attempting to break through the door seemed to bolster Martin's confidence. "What the hell do you want me to do? Let you go? It's not happening!"

Sands aimed the gun at the door and popped a couple of rounds. Regardless of whether the bullets passed through the door or not, the men seemed to stop their efforts for the time being. He turned his attention back to Martin. "I guess I'll just have to inject this into you. We'll see what happens."

There was a long pause, and Sands could already tell Martin was fabricating a lie. Even so, Sands waited for him to answer. "It's a heavy sedative."

Sands' eyebrows rose, and he leaned close to Martin. "That's a very stupid lie."

Sands pushed down on the syringe, injecting Martin with the drug, and Martin immediately shot up, throwing Sands backward. Still, it was too late for Martin to do anything.

"Motherfucker!" Martin shouted, and it came out more desperate than angry. Sands heard the sound of something dropping to the concrete floor, and guessed that it was the empty syringe.

"Lies are terrible for your health," Sands said, letting out a sharp laugh that became increasingly hysterical as he backed further away from Martin.

He'd known, just from where Martin had tried to inject it, that it was the paralyzing agent. "That shit permanent, Chief?"

Of course, Sands knew that it was. Martin didn't fool around with his torture. Sands decided that when this was all over, he'd have a proper freak out about how close he'd come to becoming a blind quadriplegic.

Martin began to move towards him, but seemed to have some trouble about halfway through the journey, as his footsteps became oddly timed.

Sands continued to back up until he came in contact with the far wall. Leaning heavily against it, Sands laugh started to die as he slid down to the floor. Setting his gun hand on one bent-up knee, he zeroed in on Martin's panicked breathing.

He had no real desire to kill Martin. This was far more fitting. Still, he'd blow him away if he had to.

"You'll pay…" Martin said weakly, and it sounded like he was choking on his words.

"I already have."

Damn, did that drug work fast; even for something injected straight into the spinal cord. If there was an antidote, there was no time to administer it.

"You know, I never switched departments," Sands drawled into the ever-present darkness. Martin was in that blackness, somewhere, fighting against the drug destroying the nerves in his spine; no longer concerned about the blind officer at all.

Sands felt compelled to tell Martin the truth, because it was insulting that Martin thought he'd been tossed around departments like a cheap dog toy. "I'd never want to return to PsyOps? Wrong, Amigo. I never left them."

Sands listened intently. Martin seemed incapable of speech at this point; whether it was a result of the drug, or his panic, Sands couldn't tell.

Martin was down for the count, but Sands knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. He was quickly reminded of that fact as someone shot out the lock on the door.

Sands chuckled again; he wasn't sure why. There was no rational reason for it. Maybe it was a reaction to Martin's ironic fate, or relief… or maybe he'd finally shot his bolt. He really couldn't say. But as he heard Martin fall to the ground, he seemed unable to stop the laughter from escaping his lips.

* * *

Zulu Translations

Thula. Ingonyama ilele. – Hush. The lion sleeps

Spook Speak

PsyOps - Psychological Operations

* * *

Author's Notes

After much anguish, and four rewrites, chapter 39 is posted! LOL - I hope you enjoyed it.

Special thanks to my beta, Stella-Maria.

* * *

Review Responses

Much love to each and every one of you! Thank you, thank you!

Special thanks to: **Merrie** (You're so sweet, thank you! Always wonderful to hear that you enjoy my take on him. :), **Lynx Ryder **(Yeah, an actual biological father! Imagine that! I know most of us think of him as having been born in leather pants and a gun in his hand; plopped into the Mexican desert and aged to perfection. LOL - Thanks so, so much for your 2 wonderful reviews!), **Quick29** (For the last time, I told you, no cigarette! ( thanks so much for the review ;) ), **fanfiction fanatic** (thanks hun; very happy you're still enjoying the story!), **fan of fiction** (Whoo hoo! Newbie:hands over Sands action figure: . Thanks for reviewing. I'm happy you're likin' the story.), **Spoofmaster** (No worries - real life gets the best of all of us at times. Ah, Sands' wife. Curiouser and curiouser it seems. I'm very happy you like the subplot. ;) Thanks so much!), **Sissy** (Thank you! The languages... it's a mix. I speak some French, Italian, and Spanish. A friend, Cece, did the longer Spanish translations - it is her native language. I didn't know any Latin until I did this story! But with the help of some Latin books from the library I'm able to work it out.), **SparrowLover **(Wow! Thanks, hon! I'm very glad you're enjoying the peeks into Sands' past -- of course there is more to come. ;), **someone** (newbie alert! Sands action figure for you! I got this out as soon as I could, honest...), **UnforgivingTears** (wow, looks at all the newbies! It makes me so happy! Sands action figure to you, too. Thank you very much for your kind words!), **Lady Crimson** (Sands action figure to you -- thank you so much! I hope I'm not tormenting you TOO much w/ my evil cliffhangers.), **cracking dawn** (Thank you! I apologize for the delay, but I hope you found it worth the wait. I'm SO pleased to hear that you dig my take on Sands -- that's always wonderful to hear! Thanks!), **cropalot** (Forget you? Oh, I never forget a reviewer. ;) Odd - but I'm happy you found this story again. Thank you, thank you for your awesome comments. :)

Scarlett

_"You know that withholding information from a Officer is a Federal Offense... especially when that Officer has paid handsomely for it and wouldn't think twice about ripping that patch off your eye-hole and skull-fucking you to death." Sands, OUATIM_

_"I've been eating potato chips this way for 30 years." Mort, Secret Window_


	40. Showstopper

**Chapter 40: Showstopper**

Sands sat against the wall, biting back his laughter, and waiting for the inevitable sound of the door bursting open. He tilted his head back, willing the pain in his side to go away, as he tapped the gun against his thigh in some private rhythm. The door finally gave way, and Martin's goons came rushing into the room.

"Come to crash the party?" Sands drawled, keeping his gun pointed down towards the floor. Since they could very well shoot him right then and there, he didn't want to provoke them into firing their weapons.

"Don't fucking move!" a man shouted.

"Now why would I want to do that?" Sands asked dryly. He heard one of several officers approach him, while another headed straight over to where Martin was lying unconscious. Well, Sands assumed Martin was unconscious. It was hard for him to tell for certain.

Whoever was standing beside Sands cocked his gun, nudging him in the shoulder with the barrel; just so Sands knew that it was there. How considerate. "Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?" Sands drawled.

"How 'bout I show you?" the man shot back, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

Not that he cared. "Sorry. I don't swing that way," Sands said.

"Get him to a white coat immediately!" a female officer ordered, interrupting their banter. Sands thought that her voice sounded familiar, but couldn't quite place it.

A couple more officers went over to Martin. The female officer approached Sands, coming to stand in front of him. "Drop the gun, or Andy here will shoot you. Martin may care about keeping you alive, but I don't."

Sands tilted his head to the side, cocking an eyebrow. "Maybe you should ask yourself why Martin's gone through all this trouble to keep me breathing."

"What are we going to do?" Andy asked the female officer.

"We carry out Martin's plan, and if he struggles, kill him."

Something suddenly clicked in his mind, and he was able to put a name to the voice. Sands grinned. "Officer Shivel? Charming, as always." He'd never really liked her.

A second hard jab in the shoulder from Andy and Sands dropped his gun. It was time for a subtle blend of psychology and escapology, anyway. He didn't really need the gun; at least, not right away. "Can you imagine the mountain of paperwork you'll have if you kill an officer working for the Directorate of Intelligence?"

She laughed. "I know better than to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth, Sands. Get up."

"You're on the wrong side of the fence, doll."

"I suppose your side is the right side?" She knelt down next to him, her voice pitched softer than before. "You're drowning, and I'm not taking the side of a doomed man."

Sands leaned towards her. "You already have."

Shivel humphed, and stood. "I'm fully aware of what you're capable of. I won't be making the same mistake that Martin made."

Sands smiled, his right hand digging into his pocket for cigarettes. One of the officers, he couldn't tell which, pressed their gun to his temple, but when he pulled out the lighter and pack of cigarettes the pressure subsided. "But you are. You just don't realize it."

"Why are you letting him talk?" Andy cut in.

Sands spoke before Shivel could answer. "Because the Company has your balls in a vice, Andy. I'm the only one who can relieve the pressure."

"Don't get smart with me," Andy snapped.

Sands lit up, letting the nicotine relax him. "If I was, how would you know?"

"We're not in any danger of being caught," Shivel said.

Sands smiled mischievously, and listened as an unconscious Martin was moved out of the room. "Why do you think Martin was so upset? The Company is fully aware of the entire goings on down here, and I have to tell you, they're not happy campers." Sands took a deep drag of his cigarette, before continuing cryptically, "With any luck, you'll come full circle and end up with me again. I'll give you some of my personal 'therapy'."

Shivel grunted in annoyance, asking, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the Company likes to make traitors _disappear_. The Company's reputation is rotten enough as it is, and the less bad publicity the better."

"Why don't you just spit it out?"

"Let's just say that you'll end up helping the Company in the end, albeit maybe not willingly… or even knowingly," he said, getting into a subject that he would be wise not to bring up. He decided to tell the truth, because it was the scariest of all.

"Get up," she demanded.

Sands made a weak attempt to get up. Muttering "shit" under his breath, he dropped back down to the floor. He sighed and shook his head. "I don't think I can. It's hard for me to move." He massaged the back of his neck. "I wasn't fast enough."

"Too bad for you," Andy said.

"Worse for Martin," Sands quickly pointed out, cigarette planted firmly between his lips.

"Go get the tranquilizer," Shivel ordered, and the other officer left immediately.

"So, pray tell. What is this big bad plan that you're going to carry out in Martin's honor?"

"You'll be committed to a dreary Mexican sanitarium. Stripped of all identification, you'll soon be lost and forgotten."

Sands raised an eyebrow. "Swell." He took another puff of his cigarette, careful not to move too easily, faking sluggish movements for the lady's benefit. "What about you, doll? How do you plan on escaping the inescapable? How do you plan to lose the Company?"

"I know people," she stated crisply.

By the tone of her voice, he could tell that she was certain of her contact's reliability. He took a deep drag, contemplating the best way to strip away her confidence. The other officer would be back soon with the tranquilizer, so he had to act quickly. Perhaps a change of tactic was in order. He'd denied everything with Martin, but this officer had a completely different personality, and the circumstances were completely different… so an alternate approach was called for.

He knew she was loyal to Martin. That much was obvious. He was sure, however, that she was more loyal to herself.

"The Company casts an inescapable shadow; it will fall over any place you go, darken everything you do. Are you willing to run for the rest of your life?" Sands asked, his voice so matter-of-fact it was hard to believe that it could be anything but the truth.

"I'll do just fine."

Sands shrugged, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "Always a possibility. It won't stop you from having to look over your shoulder every day for the rest of your life, but there is always the remote chance that you'll slip through undetected. Best of luck to you."

"Why are you suddenly concerned for my well being?"

Sands' bark of laughter cut through the air like a knife. "Concern for others is not a feeling I indulge in." He smirked, bringing the cigarette to his lips. "I'm offering you a deal."

"What could you possibly have to bargain with?"

Sands grinned as he exhaled smoke through his nose. "An escape from the Company's shadow. You do nothing more to me, and I'll see to it that the Company thinks you a hero instead of the traitor you so obviously are."

She closed the gap between them. "What makes you so sure that they'll believe you over me and the rest of the officers working under Martin?"

Sands tilted his head back until it rested against the wall. "Well, I do have my wonderful reputation working in my favor, but…" Sands raised his head and smirked in her direction. "Most importantly, I gave them proof. I handed them hard evidence that they're already acting on. That, my dear, is why Martin was so upset after his phone call. It signaled the beginning of the end for his illegal activities."

"An officer who's been transferred as many times as you have can't have much sway in the Company," she countered. "They have to respect the officer to--"

"I've never been transferred," Sands interrupted, exhaling a large cloud of smoke.

"How's that?" she asked. He was happy to hear the surprise lacing her tone. He'd managed to catch her off guard.

"Let me ask you something. Why would the Company bother bouncing around an officer that they consider such a pain in the ass? Why not get rid of me and be done with it?"

When she seemed to be at a loss for words, he continued. "You know, I think it would be therapeutic for me to tell you the truth. It's been a very long time since I've done that." He took a deep breath, stubbing his cigarette out on the cement floor. That last part was a lie; he was only telling her because it would unnerve her. "Like I said, I work for the Directorate of Intelligence. PsyOps, because of its controversial past, is an unstable branch of the DI that has to disperse and relocate the bulk of its officers whenever there's an investigation into the CIA's activities. The Company can't afford another MK-Ultra scandal, so major projects, especially experiments, are put on hold; everything is neatly tucked away for a not so rainy day. The majority of its officers are sent wherever they are needed, until things can resume back at home."

"You worked as an assassin…" she cut in, not quite believing him.

"Twice," Sands said, holding up two fingers. "But that wasn't my original assignment in either operation; it was a last resort. Psychological persuasion was no longer an option. The only reason I was asked to do the wet work was because I was conveniently close by, and fully capable of carrying out the orders." He shrugged. "Besides, that was a long time ago; my first few years working for the Company. Nowadays, it's a cold day in hell before they ask for someone to be whacked… officially."

"So, if I let you go, then I'm just supposed to trust that you'll carry out your end of the bargain?"

"Bitch of a deal, isn't it?"

The door opened and closed. "Here's the tranquilizer."

Sands didn't acknowledge Andy's return, keeping his attention on Shivel.

"If I am supposed to trust you…" she started, but Andy quickly interrupted.

"What? Trust _him_?"

"Who called Martin?" Shivel asked Andy.

"How should I know?"

While the two officers were distracted, Sands nudged the gun he'd dropped earlier, still lying at his feet, ever-so-slightly towards him with the heel of his boot.

"He said that they know!" she hissed.

"He'd say anything to get out of this!"

"But what if they do? We need to get out of here."

"Not if you trust me," Sands interjected smoothly.

She let out a half-hearted chuckle. "I can't trust you. That's the problem."

"There is far more to me, to this whole operation, than either of you realize."

"Why did they send you here, Sands?" she asked, as if the question had just occurred to her. "Why was a PsyOps officer needed in Culiacan?"

"Ah, finally you ask a worthwhile question." Sands smirked. "Neither of you are cleared for that sort of information. You're aware that there will be consequences if I tell you?"

"You don't tell us, and we have no deal."

Sands pretended to think over whether he was going to tell them or not, before starting the explanation with a lazy wave of his hand. "Social destabilization," Sands said at last, giving the gun another light tap towards him as he extracted another cigarette from the pack. "It was necessary to study the social dynamics in Culiacan, so that we could successfully influence a coup d'état. It was a particularly tricky operation because the overthrow had to be timed perfectly. Imagine Mexico as an ancient fortress. For everything to balance out, certain walls had to fall, but we couldn't just knock down all the walls; the supporting walls had to remain standing." Smiling, Sands lit up. "It was a plan so crafty you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel."

"Are you telling me that you influenced all of Culiacan into a coup on the Day of the Dead?" Andy scoffed.

"No, Ignoramus. I'm telling you that I was controller for not only Martin's operation, but for PsyOps' operation as well. The truth of the matter is, Martin's operation was nothing more than an expensive distraction." While he was talking, Sands managed to slip the gun into his pants without them noticing. He was extremely thankful that their nervousness about the uncertain situation had made them careless… it was exactly what he'd been hoping for.

There was a long stretch of silence before either officer seemed able to make a decision. Sands tilted his head and arched an eyebrow in question, but said no more.

It was Shivel who finally broke the silence. "Get him up."

"What are we doing?" Andy asked, clearly unhappy about the whole situation.

Another long pause. She was definitely uneasy. "We're going to stick to the plan."

Sands said nothing in response, taking a final drag of his cigarette. He showed no outward signs of worry, and wondered what their body language would be telling him right now. She hadn't switched sides like he'd hoped, but he'd accomplished the main goal just the same. She now lacked that extra boost of self-confidence that she'd had before, and he'd managed to unnerve her enough to get his weapon back without her noticing. He tossed the cigarette to the ground without bothering to stub it out, and then exhaled the remaining smoke through his mouth in a well practiced vaporous ring.

Inhaling a lungful of air, Sands struggled to his feet. Although he wasn't as helpless as he was pretending to be, it wasn't all an act either. His entire body ached, and he knew he needed to end all this before his body decided to give out all together.

Standing upright, Sands leaned against the wall to steady himself. When Andy tried to pull him along, he held up a hand. "Just give me a second." Bending over, he placed his hands on his knees, swallowing thickly.

"Should I give him the tranquilizer now?" Andy asked, a firm grip still on Sands' upper arm.

Shivel sighed, walking towards the door. "No, he's weak anyway. Things will just take longer if we subdue him."

'_Thank God for absolute stupidity,' _Sands thought to himself, moving his hand to his hip as if the wound in his side was causing him pain.

That's when Andy finally took notice. "Hey, where's the Glock?"

'_Showtime.' _Sands pulled the gun from his pants, pressing the barrel against Andy's chest. "Right here." Sliding back the safety, Sands pulled the trigger. Turning around to face Shivel, he pushed Andy backward as the man fell to the floor. "Sorry, doll. I just couldn't go along with all this."

Giving Shivel little time to think, he ignored his protesting muscles and spun round quickly, kicking her feet out from under her.

"Shit!" Shivel yelped. Her gun fired; the bullet going astray as she lost her balance and hit the ground.

Wasting no time, Sands aimed at where he'd heard her land, and squeezed the trigger.

She let out a yelp of pain, and he approached her quickly, his gun never wavering from his target.

"You so much as breathe too deeply and I'll kill you," Sands said coldly. "Toss the weapon."

He listened as she dropped the gun, and then picked it up and tucked it away so she couldn't pull the same stunt he had. Her breathing was labored, and laced with pain. He was pretty sure he'd gotten her in the stomach. "You should have gone along with me. Now look at you. You're bleeding all over the cement. You're a mess. It's pathetic." Sands paused, kneeling down. Reaching out his free hand, he found her jaw and turned her head so that she was facing him. "Can you really blame a man with no eyes for what he's about to do?"

"Fuck you," she gasped.

Sands heaved a put upon sigh and, hearing Andy groan, swiftly trained his gun on the sound and fired, silencing the man once and for all. Turning his attention back to Shivel, he flashed a twisted smile. "It must be my lucky day. If there was anyone watching the camera, they would have come rushing to your aid by now." Sands tilted his head. "Not many people on this base are privy to Martin's illegal operations, are they? Where am I, exactly? Inside the base or in one of the connecting buildings?"

When she said nothing, Sands ran the barrel of his gun slowly down her chest, stopping between her breasts. "If you don't answer me, you're of no use to me. I hope your affairs are in order."

"Okay, okay…" she said, feebly attempting to push the gun away from her and failing miserably. She took a long, ragged breath before she continued. "Interrogation… B."

"Give me your cell," he said, holding out his hand. About half a minute later, she dropped the phone into his palm.

"I… need a doctor."

"I noticed," Sands said, not sounding overly concerned as he flipped open her cell phone and ran a finger over the keypad. "You know that old cliché… I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you?" Snapping the phone shut, he returned his attention to her. "Well, I told you about PsyOps' operation. I warned you both that there would be consequences. Well, these are those consequences. You're not classified for that sort of information."

"Please, I…" she trailed off as he stood and walked over to the chair, lying by the door. Picking it up, he moved it to his best guesstimate of the center of the room.

"I hope the base is up to code," Sands drawled.

"Call…" Shivel's voice was interrupted when she began coughing violently. After the coughing subsided she finished faintly, "Doctor," sounding as if she was about to slip into unconsciousness.

"Am I near the smoke detector?" Sands asked, ignoring her plea.

When she didn't answer, he turned back towards her, mostly out of habit. "Doll?"

Silence. She must have passed out… or decided that she'd helped him enough.

Groaning in annoyance, Sands turned his attention back to the task at hand. Holding the chair up over his head so the chair back touched the ceiling tiles, he moved around the room until it made contact with the smoke alarm. Luckily, it hadn't taken too long, and he hadn't been too far off the mark. He planned on using the alarm as a distraction… but only if it was absolutely necessary.

Setting the chair down so that it was positioned directly under the smoke alarm, he sat down on it and pulled Shivel's cell phone out from his pocket. He needed to find out how far the OOS officers were from the base. Fingers quickly familiarizing themselves with the keypad he dialed Cam's number, one foot tapping impatiently as it rang.

'_Damn it Cam, just because you don't recognize the number doesn't mean it's not important!'_ When he was sent to Cam's voice mail, he pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke calmly into the phone, despite the anxiety he was feeling. "Hello Cam. This is hell calling. If you don't answer your fucking phone or call me back, I will devour your soul. Have a nice day." Sands snapped the cell phone shut, and waited.

He knew that he could attempt to leave the complex, but there were random factors in abundance. For one thing, until OOS arrived, he was still considered a rogue officer. Second, he had no idea how many officers were set up outside the interrogation building, working for Martin, armed and ready to shoot if necessary. The fact that he couldn't see complicated things almost to the point of absurdity.

When the cell rang, he immediately answered it. He didn't say anything, not wanting to give himself away if it was someone calling Shivel.

After a few seconds of static over the phone line, a voice finally asked, "Sands?"

"Cam, I may have to kill you," Sands stated.

"Later. Thank God! I was afraid that you were dead."

Well, maybe someone did care after all. "What's the situation?" Sands asked.

"OOS received your recording from Tom. They're coming to pick you up and arrest Martin. There is going to be one hell of an investigation. OOS' ETA is 1800…" Cam stopped for a moment, and then added, "That's in ten minutes."

"This could be over in three," Sands said. As if on cue, the room's door opened with a creak. Sands head snapped up at the sound, and he immediately aimed the Glock at the door.

"Don't shoot!"

"Ava… close the door."

She did as he asked without any argument. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, obviously getting a good look at the carnage around her. "Did you do this?"

"No, it was Santa Claus." Sands returned his attention back to Cam, who was repeatedly asking, "What is it?" in a slightly panicky tone.

"Forget it. So, how is the Company feeling about me these days?"

"Mixed, as always. Martin's the one getting the axe, though. What's going on?"

"I'm at the Mexico Base, in Interrogation building B. Ava's here too. Long story short: I paralyzed Martin, and several officers rushed him out of here to see the white coats. I've… taken care of the two goons in charge of committing me to the loony bin. Now I'm sitting in an interrogation room with bodies surrounding me and no… visible way out of here."

"You have been busy," Cam said after a brief pause, and to his credit, he didn't sound terribly shocked by Sands' summary. "Sit tight. I'll report your exact position to OOS."

A rustle of clothing distracted Sands from his conversation, and his attention quickly shifted to Ava. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Checking to see if she's dead," Ava answered.

A tingle ran up Sands' spine, and he frowned at the voice in his mind that whispered, _'Don't trust her.'_

Suddenly, he didn't like the company he was keeping.

"Cam, I'll call you back," Sands ended his cell conversation with a snap of its cover, and asked Ava, "Dead or alive, why is she any concern of yours?"

"I'm not used to death like you…"

"Bullshit," Sands interrupted, standing up. He leveled his gun on her. "Back away."

She did so, moving back towards the door. "Sands… don't be crazy."

"When am I anything but?" Sands asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. "I've got some time to kill. Let's do a puzzle."

"What?"

"You know… a puzzle. You have several of the missing pieces, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and Sands had to give her credit, because she certainly sounded convincing.

"You're very good," he stated. "But I'm always just a little bit better. I never did trust you, you know."

"I feel very sorry for you, Sheldon, because you can't trust anyone."

Sands stiffened when she used his first name, knowing that Tom wouldn't have given it to her. "With good reason," he said, slowly approaching her.

"Maybe."

Sands stopped in front of her, smirking in a way only a true cynic could. "So, you're the sleeper."


	41. Pop Goes The Weasel

**Chapter 41: Pop! Goes the Weasel**

"I am," Ava said in confirmation, after a short pause. Her voice was steady and even, but it wasn't threatening. Evidently she'd decided that the truth was the best option.

Clever girl.

Sands tilted his head thoughtfully, and gave Ava an appreciative smirk. "An honest sleeper." Chuckling to himself, he took a step closer to where Ava was standing. "Now I've heard everything, Doll."

"I'm not your enemy."

Raising a contemplative eyebrow Sands stated, "You're not my friend, either."

Ava sighed, and Sands realized that she sounded tired. "No. You'd hardly allow that."

He lowered his gun, but kept it at the ready. If she'd wanted to stop him, she'd had ample chance to do it before now. Even so, he wasn't about to trust someone who'd lied to him so easily. Lying was her job, but then again, it was his as well.

"People like me don't have friends, Sugar. We have enemies in disguise, and they tend to accumulate quite rapidly." He gestured at her with the barrel of the gun, making his way towards her as he spoke in a bored tone that contradicted the severity of his words. "I should kill you. It would make things much easier. Kill first; ask questions later, you know the motto. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

She didn't answer right away, evidently aware of the precariousness of her situation. "Because you have nothing to gain by killing me, and nothing to lose by letting me live."

She was very good at saying the right thing at the right time, he had to give her that. It wasn't a talent that came naturally to most people in situations like this; saying exactly what it took to get the other person to stay on your side of the fence. No, that was something that took years to perfect.

Indeed, she was a well-trained officer, and she'd probably worked in the field for quite some time.

Perhaps he should have paid a bit more attention to dear Ava Hunter.

She stood her ground as he drew near, and he was aware that he probably looked like some mangled angel from Hell. He knew his face must be ashen from blood loss and exhaustion, and he could feel his hair, almost certainly jet black from sweat and grime, clinging to the perspiration on his face and neck. Dark sockets instead of eyes would be taunting her, daring her to turn away as he stood a mere inch away from her.

"Exitus acta probat. That assumes that I trust you, and I don't, because you're nothing special; just another puppet dancing on their stage." His drawl was mocking as he traced the outline of her jaw with his index finger.

She stood her ground, even as she clasped her hands tightly in an effort to stop their trembling, a bracelet on her wrist giving her away as it jingled. "So are you."

His hand dropped back to his side, her words catching him off guard. "So are you," Sands repeated, the words coming out in an exhale. Those three words, three simple words, shook him more than anything Martin had said. Three words that made his mask of indifference shatter, if only for a second.

_A puppet. Nothing more, nothing less. _

_So are you._

Furrowing his brow, he inhaled sharply, pulling his mask back together almost before she could see that it was cracked. He was almost quick enough. Almost.

Before Ava had time to react, he shoved her backwards, aiming the gun at the sound she made as she hit the wall. "Bad career move, Doll."

"If you shoot me, it'll be you making the bad career move." From the tone of her voice he could tell Ava's patience had finally worn thin. He supposed that looking down the barrel of a gun could do that to a person.

Good. He wanted her angry. She was far more likely to tell him the truth when she was pissed.

He tucked the Glock into the back of his pants, smiling at Ava as he did so like the cat that ate the canary. Reaching out, he ran his hand down the length of her left arm slowly, and then did the same with the right. He felt her begin to relax underneath his touch, and just as she did so he grasped her wrists tightly, pinning her against the wall.

She bit back a cry of protest as she hit the wall for the second time. He pressed up against her, and leaned down, speaking into her ear. "Who pulls your strings, my little marionette?" he whispered.

He could tell she was once again trying to choose her words wisely, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath she took. "I can hear the wheels in your head turning, but if you haven't noticed, let me enlighten your busy mind; I've lost patience with you."

Letting her go abruptly, he stood his ground, giving her no breathing room as he waited for her to answer.

"I'm an officer, like you."

"Your assignment?"

"To make sure no one interfered with your objective."

"Oh!" Sands exclaimed, taking a step back. "My guardian angel," he finished derisively, his hands gesturing as if he was presenting her to someone as he took a step backwards. Letting out a sharp bark of laughter, he shook his head. "I think the picture's finally starting to develop, Ms. Hunter."

"It worked out well for you, didn't it?"

"Oh yes. A puppet never fails to gives a good performance."

She laughed lightly, causing Sands to raise his eyebrows in silent question.

"You're no puppet, Sands. A puppet doesn't think; it just does." Becoming serious, she continued. "You're far too hard on yourself."

Not acknowledging her last comment, Sands rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he asked, "Which branch do you work for in the Company tree?"

"Telling you could cost me my job, Sands. But I think you should know… your extra caution when dealing with the Company will not have been for nothing. You're going to need all the leverage you can get."

He could feel her eyes on him, watching him like one would watch a rattlesnake. Her answer wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she knew it. "I suppose I shouldn't count on you to follow through on your end," he said matter-of-factly.

The ring of Officer Shivel's cell phone interrupted Ava's answer. The ring reminded him that Cam was on his way. Pulling the cell out of his pocket, he flipped it open and waited for the person on the other end to make their identity known.

Cam's voice came on the line a second later. "Sands?"

"Yeah." Lowering the phone, he addressed Ava again. "Split, Doll."

"What?"

"You. In the hall." He was in no mood for an argument, and he made sure she knew it too. It wasn't that he was afraid of her overhearing; she'd probably listen through the door anyway. He just couldn't quite gather enough trust to let her stay in the room while his attention was focused elsewhere. He knew what the consequences could be if he let his guard down in front of her.

'_Once bitten, twice shy.'_

He didn't shift his attention back to Cam until he heard Ava walk out into the hall and close the door behind her. "Where the hell are you?" he asked as soon as he heard the door shut.

"You're asking me?" Cam asked, sounding a little miffed as well. "Where are you?"

"The absent-minded CIA Officer. I've told you a million times to write these things down." Despite his sarcasm, Sands frowned, fearing where all this was really going. "I've stayed put like a good little boy."

"Then you must be invisible, because you're nowhere in sight," Cam said, worry evident in his voice.

A tingle ran down Sands' spine. "You're there." It was a statement, not a question. This was bad.

Very bad.

"Bingo."

'_Fuck.'_

Sands collapsed into the chair in the center of the room as Cam asked anxiously, "What's going on?"

Things just continue to get curiouser and curiouser, Sands thought, biting his lip uncharacteristically in nervous anxiety. Bad things tended to happen when he didn't know what was going on.

"Deeper and deeper the rabbit hole goes. Where it stops, nobody knows," he said to Cam cryptically, as if in answer. In a way, it was one. He figured Cam was used to his odd lingo, and would get his meaning, despite the fact that it didn't make a whole lot of sense.

It would be a cold day in hell before he flat out told Cam that he had no fucking clue what was going on, or where he really was.

Even if that was indeed the case.

But Cam wasn't stupid, and despite all of his teasing to the contrary, Sands knew how quick and efficient Cam could be. "Sands, you're in deep shit." Cam said. "You need to find out where you are."

"Yeah. I guess I shouldn't have followed that white rabbit," Sands said distractedly, his thoughts briefly returning to Ava and the part she had to play in all this.

"What should we do, Alice?"

Sands didn't answer right away. An odd smile tugged at his lips, out-of-place in the dire situation he found himself in now. "I'm going to step though the looking glass," he said at last.

"It's time to be serious, Sands."

He stopped himself from making a snide comment in response. Cam didn't seem to realize that he was deadly serious. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he replied calmly, "I know."

Moving the phone away from his ear, he held it in front of him, as if looking at it. Cam was probably still talking to him. He didn't care.

'_I'm running out of options.'_

In a daze, he turned off the cell, cutting off Cam's attempts to come up with a plan.

Placing his elbows on his knees, he rubbed his face tiredly. Everything had just gotten a whole lot more complicated, and to make matters worse, he was so drained that it was becoming hard to think straight.

Ava clearly didn't work for Martin, nor did she work for OOS, nor did she really work for Tom. He had the feeling that if he knew who she worked for, the rest of the puzzle would fall into place. He had the feeling he was missing something obvious, something that would have come to him clear as day if he wasn't so fucking exhausted.

Sands' blind gaze started to wander to the table that he and Martin had sat at earlier.

The tape.

Sitting up straight, he furrowed his brow, a question forming in his mind. "Where did you get that tape, Martin?" he wondered. It suddenly occurred to him that some of the answers he was searching for just might be sitting in the room with him.

With some effort on his part, he stood and made his way over to the table. His attention had been so focused on Martin that he hadn't counted his steps. As a result he was forced to hold out his right hand slightly in front of him so that he didn't walk into the table.

About half way there the toe of his boot hit one of the bodies on the floor, and he nearly fell. Righting himself, he muttered a curse and closed the gap between himself and the table in two more steps.

Once his hand made contact with the table, he slowly ran the palm of his hand over the tabletop. He bumped his hand against the object he was searching for, and it tipped over with a clunk. Grabbing it, he turned around and made his way back to the chair.

He sat down heavily, turning the small tape recorder over in his hand. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, knowing he was going to need one as soon as he hit play. Extracting one, he put the pack back in his pocket and exchanged the pack for his lighter.

'_Well, what am I afraid of?' _

Lighting up, he smirked to himself at his own ridiculous question. He knew very well what he was afraid of. Sighing, he only realized that his hand was shaking when he brought the cigarette to his lips.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, trying to relax. It didn't really work, but he felt a little more confident when he had a cigarette between his lips. With a determined set of his jaw, he felt out the buttons on the side of the tape deck, the process made a little easier by the raised symbols on each main button. It didn't take long to find the familiar sideways triangle that represented 'play'. His index finger hovered over the button hesitantly.

The fact was there was one question that he was dreading hearing the answer to.

'_What was it that Martin wanted me to hear before he was interrupted?'_

After a moment, he bit the bullet and pressed play. The tape crackled to life.

There were a few seconds of static before the shrink's voice spoke. "You never burned down your house, Cecelia. You tried, but the house is still there. You didn't destroy it."

"No, no, no. It can't exist. Burned to ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Forever… gone forever," Cecelia said, her words a rambling mish-mash of thoughts that didn't form complete sentences.

"It does exist."

"You're just like _him_!" Cecelia hissed, her tone of voice changing abruptly.

It sounded as if she'd hit the table to accentuate her point. Sands exhaled smoke out through his nostrils, trying desperately not to picture in his mind's eye the conversation playing on the tape. He only half succeeded.

"Like your husband?" the shrink asked after a short pause.

The change of subject seemed to affect her adversely, as she began to mumble to herself. Her mumblings were incoherent to Sands, but he wasn't sure if it was the result of the static noise on the tape or if she'd been talking so quietly that the recorder wasn't able to pick up her words.

"I'm tearing down our paper house, Sheldon!" she said suddenly, loud and clear, her whispered ramblings stopping as suddenly as they had begun.

It sounded as if she were convinced that she was talking right to him. As if he was in the room with her, rather than the psychiatrist. Taking another puff of his cigarette, Sands frowned, realizing that she must still be suffering from dementia, even after all these years of treatment.

"It's all wrong. All wrong. Everything is wrong," she blathered on, and the shrink interrupted her before she got too excited.

"What do you mean by 'it's all wrong'?"

"I saw… things, so many things. He couldn't see them – he didn't think I could see them – but he was wrong. I saw – I know, because I saw them."

"Why do you think your husband couldn't see what you could?"

"He had no eyes. No eyes, no soul."

Sands inhaled sharply, and coughed as he took too much smoke into his lungs. He cursed his own stupidity as he regained his composure.

"Do you mean that he was blind to what you could see?" the shrink asked, trying to make sense of her riddles.

Cecelia didn't answer, and the shrink didn't press her on the question. Sands wondered why; he should have had her answer the question. It would have forced her to think about the things that were spilling out of her mouth.

"What did your husband see?" he asked instead.

"Nothing. Nothing but lies. He was a lie."

A tremor shook Sands' body, and he took another drag of his cigarette like a drowning man inhaling oxygen.

'_Holy fucking shit_.'

So that's what Martin had wanted him to hear, sick fuck that he was. He could just imagine what Martin had wanted to say.

"_I may have done this to you, but I could never have dreamed it up without some help from your wife."_

Sands' suddenly felt dizzy. He bent over, holding his head in his hands. It took him a moment to realize that he'd missed part of the conversation on the tape.

Cecelia was reciting the end of _3 Blind Mice._ Apparently she found it hysterical because she began to laugh, and then she recited the old nursery rhyme again.

The shrink finally interrupted her hysterics with a calm but stern, "Cecelia, stop!"

It was no surprise that she didn't.

"He told me we didn't have a daughter!" Cecelia said, still laughing, but it was quickly replaced by sobbing as she continued. "Isn't that funny? He told me that, you know. Paper. She must have been drawn on paper. That's were I saw her. He told me. Blind mice lie—"

Sands stopped the tape abruptly.

'_Couldn't quite pull that one off, could I?'_ Sands' mind taunted.

Hitting the appropriate button, he sat in silence as the tape rewound to the beginning.

'_Don't think about that now.'_

He tapped the ashes off his cigarette, listening to the cassette reels spin, slow, and then stop with a slight shudder from the deck.

'_Time to find out who out-weaseled the weasel.'_

Sands hit play and waited.

This time the voice recorded was very familiar, and it spoke with cool, clinical detachment. "Project number 05493. Subject PB – 048C. Annual evaluation. January 15th, 1999."

Sands stopped the tape. That was all he needed to hear. Stubbing out his cigarette on the arm of the chair, the realization of how deep all this truly went began to sink in, and all those extra pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

And the picture it was forming wasn't pretty.

The nasty outcome in Mexico had been set in motion long before he'd even been given the assignment. Shit.

Ejecting the cassette from the deck, he flipped it over and began pulling the tape out of its casing. As he pulled out the tape, it struck him that the cassette was a lot like one's mind. Everything was neatly stored inside until someone began to pull on the tape; if you pulled on the tape long enough, eventually it would snap completely. You might be able to salvage some of the tape, but it would never play the same again, nor would it ever be so neatly spooled inside its casing.

The door opened just as he broke the tape from the reels. "What timing!" he exclaimed with mock enthusiasm, tossing the unraveled tape away. "What style! Tell me, did you listen through the door with a glass or did you have to rough it?"

"I—" Ava began, but was immediately interrupted.

"A little late for explanations. Besides, they're boring." Sands stood, using the back of the chair for support as he swayed ever so slightly on his feet. "Why don't you tell me my fortune, instead?"

"Your fortune?" Ava asked, but it was clear that she knew where Sands was going.

"Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten your crystal ball," he drawled.

She stepped further into the room before answering. "I can't tell you that, but I can tell you that you opened up quite a… Pandora's Box in Mexico."

"How enlightening." Folding his arms in front of his chest, he smiled slyly. "At least, your choice of words is."

"Do they mean something to you?"

"You know they do," he stated matter-of-factly. "But don't attempt to look inside. There could be terrible consequences if you do."

"Oh, I have no intention of looking inside," Ava said, and he imagined that she had a slight smile on her face as she said it.

Tilting his head, he considered Ava's role in all this. He stood unmoving as his thoughts drifted from Ava to Cecelia then back again. Ava didn't realize it, but she'd reminded him of an important strategy. Sometimes the best action was no action at all. "And it really **was** a kitten, after all," he half-whispered.

Sands unfolded his arms, and ran a hand through his hair, pulling the stray strands away from his face. "You do what you have to do," he stated at last, having made his decision as he approached Ava once more. "But I'm like a bad penny… I always turn up again. Remember that, if you choose to become an enemy."

Ava didn't seem to know how to respond, but recovered fairly quickly and took a tentative step forward. "You seem to think that you've lost, but you haven't. You just finally stopped fighting."

He said nothing to Ava in response. He didn't tell her that he'd continue to fight if his goddamn body wasn't about to collapse. He didn't tell her that he'd continue to fight if he knew who he should fight against.

And he didn't tell her that he'd continue to fight… if there was any point to it at all.

He'd already obtained the evidence he needed, and had gotten his revenge on Martin. He knew how the pieces fit together, and who had a part to play. His anger seemed to have left him, leaving him with nothing but exhaustion.

'_If you don't know where you're going, then every road you take will lead you nowhere.'_

"Where to?" Sands asked casually, but he dreaded the answer.

"Back to the States."

He chuckled. "A deliciously vague answer," Sands replied, closing the gap between them.

He leaned in close, and inhaled deeply, taking in her perfume. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her by the waist. She let out a breathless gasp as he pressed her body against his, and despite the situation he smiled wickedly when he felt her heartbeat quicken.

"What awaits dear Officer Sands back in the good ol' US of A, Doll?"

"They'll take you back. You've proven yourself useful to the Company."

"Nunc, vero inter saxum et locum durum sum. **How** will they take me back?" He wasn't naïve, and had seen and been a part of enough Company operations and projects to know that 'they'll take you back' wasn't necessarily a good thing at all. Although his decision was already made, he wanted to know what was in store for him in the coming days. He couldn't formulate an effective plan when he didn't know what was going on.

"What makes you think that I know?" Ava asked.

Sands smiled knowingly. "Because you do."

The door opened suddenly, interrupting them both, and Sands' attention quickly shifted to the newcomers. He let Ava go, but she surprised him when she grasped the back of his neck and pulled him close. She whispered quickly into his ear, "Pandora," while at the same time relieving him of his gun. He didn't try and stop her. It wasn't as if he'd had any intention of using it. "Remember yourself," she said softly, before pushing him away and ordering the officers who'd just entered to "Get on with it."

His instincts screamed at him to not give up without a fight, but in the back of his mind he knew that fighting would be suicide.

He found it funny, that as bad as things were, anything seemed better than that.

Just because he was letting them have their way this time, didn't mean he couldn't go out with some style. Sands faced Ava, and said in a sing-song voice, "I've no time to plead or pine. I've no time to wheedle…" Sands hand mimicked pulling the trigger of a gun in Ava's direction, "Pop goes the weasel."

Chuckling, he let an Officer take hold of his arm and lead him out.

He wanted to believe that returning home wouldn't be so bad, but then Ava's warning - and he wasn't stupid enough to believe that it was anything but - rang clear in his mind.

_Pandora…_

He had the distinct feeling that this was far from over, and returning home wasn't going to be pleasant.

* * *

Latin Translations

Exitus acta probat. – The end proves the deeds.

Nunc, vero inter saxum et locum durum sum. - Now, I really am between a rock and a hard place.


	42. Through The Looking Glass

**Chapter 42 – Through the Looking Glass**

It felt like he'd stood up too fast; he was dizzy and barely hanging on to consciousness. Only… he wasn't standing or sitting; he was lying flat on his back, yet he couldn't feel anything beneath him.

_Sleeping the day away?_

A voice.

His own? He wasn't sure. Everything seemed unreal, yet he was pretty sure that he wasn't asleep.

_Have you ever seen such a thing in your life, as three blind mice?_

'_That's not right,' _Sands thought, but couldn't pinpoint why. The more he tried to think, the more confused he became. That wasn't his voice, but who else's voice could be in his head other than his own?

"Not quite all there yet, are you, _little mouse_?"

His eyebrows drew together in confusion, instinct the only thing he was able to go on while his mind was stuck in idle. The room seemed impossibly dark. It was as if he was deep within the bowels of some dark cave, where light was unnatural and darkness was the norm.

Such darkness could make a sane man go mad.

'_Three blind mice, three blind mice…' _a voice sang, different from the last. Not his own. It was most definitely not his own. It was feminine, and although the voice was pleasant it made him uneasy. '_See how they run?'_

He tried to see through the blackness, and attempted to focus his gaze on the silhouette of his mystery companion.

Although he couldn't be certain, he thought he could just make out a figure. But the more he stared into the blackness, the more wrong everything seemed, and the more elusive the figure became.

Then it occurred to him; the outline of the figure was not darker than the surrounding blackness… it was lighter.

He attempted to focus his gaze on the figure but the longer he stared the harder it became to separate the figure from the darkness.

Not just darkness: absolute darkness.

'_This isn't right,'_ he thought. Even at night it wasn't **this** dark.

An ache in his side began to make its presence known, and a soft moan escaped his lips. But the moan didn't come from pain, rather from relief. He could feel something now, and it reinforced his belief that this wasn't a dream.

He wiggled his fingers experimentally and they responded, albeit sluggishly. The result was a tingling sensation that started in his hand, then quickly spread all the way up his arm.

Unexpectedly, feeling came back to his body and the sensation was overwhelming. It was as if he'd been falling, feeling nothing but the air around him, until he made impact with the earth. The feeling left him breathless, and his hands grasped whatever they could find in an attempt to ground himself. His whole body tensed, suddenly aware.

Sheet. He was clutching a cotton sheet in his fists.

"Breathe," the voice spoke; soft, feminine and recognizable. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and his body relaxed into the warm bed beneath him. Opening his mouth, he tried to form words, but couldn't seem to get any sound out.

That was most definitely odd; he was positive he'd never had trouble with the spoken word before.

_Your specialty._

Frowning, he realized that the form beside him was beginning to dissipate. It became ghost-like as foggy tendrils lost their form and dissolved into blackness.

He took a long, deep breath, and then let it out slowly. "What…?" he croaked out, unable to say any more.

"Don't," she said, whoever she was. "Here, drink this."

_Damn it, why can't I think? _

Paper touched his lips, and he opened his mouth, grateful for the cool water that was slowly tipped into his mouth, wetting his parched throat. "Drink."

The wispy tendrils formed a solid image; so brief was the visual that it was almost too quick to comprehend the face they formed before dissolving back into the darkness. "Cecelia?" he asked, voice still gravelly from unconsciousness.

As soon as he said the name, he knew it was wrong.

_No, no, no. Wrong again, amigo._

He took another sip of the cold water, and then relaxed back.

"Better?" she asked, moving the cup away.

_Ava. That's who it is. Ava._

The realization of her name brought a flood of memories with it, and they all tumbled back in a disorganized jumble that left his brain spinning. "Ava?" he asked.

"Just relax, dear."

He furrowed his brow in confusion. _Dear?_ He attempted to sort out all the information going through his mind, but his thoughts were still too mixed-up to completely grasp the oddity of her endearment.

Trying to sit up, he was quickly stopped by Ava's firm hand on his shoulder. He found that he was too tired to protest, and sank back into the pillow as she asked, "So, what are you up to today, Officer?"

He coughed, clearing the lump that had formed in his throat. He wasn't quite sure what she meant by that, but he was sure that he didn't like the child-like tone she was using with him.

"Ah, what games we play," he said, regaining his voice. "Back and forth, left and right, up and down. When do we stop?" he asked. One hand swayed lazily back and forth as he spoke.

"Whenever you want it to stop, dear," she said in the same patronizing tone. Her weight left the bed as she stood, causing Sands' body to roll to the left. He gritted his teeth as he turned onto his sore side.

"Say when?" he asked with a tired laugh, a rush of air escaping his mouth.

"Mmm hmm."

Sands frowned as he heard her prepare something beside him. She wasn't even listening.

He tried to sit up again, this time having a bit more success when she didn't attempt to stop him. He propped himself up on his elbows and turned his head in Ava's direction. "I have this nagging suspicion that everyone's out to make me insane."

She paused in her preparations. "Do you know where you are?" she asked, sounding more interested than before.

"I'm trying to decide if I'm in Wonderland or Oz." Bringing a hand to the back of his head, he popped his neck, but it did little to ease the stiffness. "Tell me; are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

"You're at OMS…" she said, placing a hand on his arm. "In the psychiatric ward."

Sands couldn't help it. He rolled his head back and laughed. "It seems that all the rabbit holes lead to the same place."

He wasn't sure why he found the whole situation funny, but he continued to laugh. Maybe it was because of the irony of the situation, or maybe it was because if he didn't laugh, he'd probably flip out. That definitely wouldn't help the situation he was in now... no, something was going on and it was vital that he maintain his normal temperament.

_Keep cool. Gather information. Don't flip out. _

"Playacting nurse today, are we?"

"I am a nurse."

Sands smiled cynically. "And what will you be tomorrow? An astronaut? " he asked as his laughter subsided, leaving him out of breath. "What's the story, Morning Glory?"

Although his fuzzy mind couldn't be sure of the situation, he had an inkling of what was going on here.

_Are you broken, Officer?_

She chuckled a little, returning to the side of the bed. "Are you insinuating that I'm lying?"

"I'm more than insinuating."

"Well, if you're so sure about it then it must be true," she replied lightly. "Time for your pills."

She grabbed his right hand, and turned it so that his palm was up. She dropped two pills into his hand as he asked, "And what are these groovy little happy pills for?" He was fairly certain these would send him tripping or put him in a sedative-induced coma. Either way, it wouldn't be conducive to a worthwhile thought process.

"Antibiotics," she said. It would have been convincing, had she not paused a beat too long. Sands found that interesting, because she seemed to be extremely efficient at misleading people, and he was certain she could lie through her teeth without any pesky morals getting in the way… or dead giveaways that would tip him off.

He popped the pills in his mouth, but pushed them to the side with his tongue. She handed him the water, and he took a sip, pretending to swallow the pills.

It was totally obvious.

It was the oldest trick in the book.

And she didn't say a word. She didn't even check to see if he'd swallowed the pills. Silently, she took the cup of water from his grip and walked away.

Perhaps she wasn't all bad.

'_Pandora.'_

After all, she'd given him fair warning… and perhaps even a fighting chance.

* * *

It began that night. A voice penetrated the dark; an imposter lurking in his mind. It was a voice masquerading as his wife.

"_How was Alaska, Shelly?"_

Of course he knew he'd never been to Alaska, just like he knew this wasn't Cecelia talking to him now, and that he had indeed returned to Mexico after the Day of the Dead.

'_Up for a little sport, are they?'_ he thought, smiling to himself. The voice continued on, and it sounded incredibly real, making it all the more satisfying when he was able to block it out completely.

Oh yes. He was game.

Of course, that didn't mean that he was going to play _their_ game. Sheldon Jeffery Sands didn't play other peoples games; he made other people play his. The best part about it was they had no idea that while they were playing _Clue_, he was buying out Boardwalk.

"_Why are you ignoring me?"_ the voice asked. "_Please talk to me, Jeff. I know something is bothering you,"_ it continued to plead.

Sands took a deep breath, and continued his earlier mantra.

_Keep cool. Gather information. Don't flip out. Keep cool. Gather information. Don't flip out. _

This was going to be a long night.

For once it seemed like a good idea to let his thoughts drift to the past, and let the present fade away.

_The sound of a coin spinning on the oak table broke the silence. After completing several successful rotations on its edge, the coin slowly began tilting to one side, succumbing to the forces of gravity. It was not quick to stop its motion, however, as its circular spin flipped its axis and it rotated around the edge instead of on it. The coin continued its horizontal spiral until finally coming to a rest on the tabletop._

"_Well that clears everything up," said the man sitting beside him after a few seconds of silence._

_Sands smirked at his so-called-peers seated at the table; the three other psychologists assigned to this project. He was the newest addition, having been hired on to the project when it seemingly hit a standstill a couple months ago. _

_The lead scientists were also there today, as well as two Company big-wigs from Washington who carried a lot of power in the form of government backing, but didn't have a fucking clue what the rest of them were talking about. It was clear that the best way to get them to understand was to treat them like five year olds… and hope they were able to keep up with that level._

"_Doesn't it, though?" Sands said, leaning back in his chair._

"_Would you kindly explain your 'demonstration', Officer Sands? We haven't got all day, and we were starting to get somewhere before your interruption," said one of the suits - also known as Karlin – sounding exasperated. _

_Sands gave the coin another twirl and watched the quarter perform its pirouette again, aware of the suit's close scrutiny. He waited until the quarter came to a stop, and then looked up to meet Karlin's expectant stare._

_Sands said nothing, and spun the quarter once more with a practiced flick of the wrist. He pointed at the coin as he spoke. "Congratulations. This quarter knows far more about PANDORA than all of you." He looked up from the coin again and was met by a group of blank stares. Sighing, he returned his gaze to the quarter before continuing on. "For a few moments, this coin is able to do as I ask it to. I ask it to spin on its end, and voila! So it does. But what's happened?" Sands asked, the coin once again becoming motionless on the table._

"_Get to the point, Jeff," said one of his colleagues, all too familiar with his long-winded, round-a-bout explanations._

"_I'm sure I'll get there eventually," Sands said flippantly, his eyes locking with Karlin's, daring him to answer._

"_It stopped."_

_Sands threw his hands up in the air. "Brilliant! Give the man a monkey." _

_Tapping the quarter with his index finger, he ignored everyone but Karlin. "I know what your next question is. Why?" Sands held up his hands and slipped into his familiar sarcastic drawl. "Right on the ball Karlin, there's no evading your sharp intellect."_

_Sands quickly became serious, lowering his hands to the table as his lips settled into their trademark smirk. "The coin begins to lose the power and direction I give it as soon as I let go. In other words, you can't control something you don't have a handle on at all times… and none of you have a handle on PANDORA."_

Somehow Sands had managed to fall asleep, despite the fake Cecelia's persistence, and morning came surprisingly quick. Cecelia, it seemed, had left sometime during the night; probably when he'd fallen asleep. He wondered how long it would take before the Company's patience wore thin.

He figured it wouldn't take too long. The Company had never been known for its inaction.

That, coupled with the fact that he became inhuman while in the grips of nicotine withdrawal, practically insured that he'd be speaking to a head honcho before the week was out.

As it turned out, it only took two more days. Two more days of Ava pretending to give him pills that he never swallowed, of hearing Cecelia's voice come and go, of repeating his mantra over and over in his mind, and of fantasizing about the next cigarette he could get his lips around… it was almost enough to drive a man off the deep end. Almost.

_Close, but no cigar. Well laid plans go up in a puff of smoke._

Damn. He needed a nicotine fix, and quick.

* * *

A box of cigarettes slid towards him on the table, and Sands had never heard a more wonderful sound in all his life. He snatched it up, tapped out a cigarette, and then tossed the box back towards the other man.

"Got a light, Mac?" Sands asked with a wave of the cigarette. Something metal slid towards him next, and he grabbed it while it was still sliding across the table. Lighting up, he threw the lighter back.

"You've been through quite a lot the past few months, haven't you Officer Sands?" an older man asked. He sounded vaguely recognizable, but Sands couldn't place him, too preoccupied with his cigarette.

He took a deep drag, and held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. Exhaling, he absently fingered the sunglasses on his face; he was silently grateful that Ava had given them back earlier in the day. "Whatever gave you that idea?" he said at last, slipping into a silky drawl.

The sound of a lighter flicking open broke the silence as the man lit his own cigarette. "You don't remember me?"

"I'm sure the earth moved for both of us," Sands said, taking a puff of his cigarette.

The man snapped the lighter shut, chuckling softly. The creak a moment later told Sands that his companion was also leaning back in his chair. "Looks like PsyOps couldn't even make a dent. I think that's bad for the Company, and extremely good for you."

"A pathetic effort," Sands said. "I'd say the Company is in need of my expertise."

"Why do you say that?" the man asked, exhaling slowly. It wasn't a question so much as it was an admission.

Sands smirked. "They took my eyes, not my brain, Mystery Man. The Company tested me, but they certainly didn't try to break me."

"That's good for the Company, then. No one understood PANDORA like you did."

Sands kept his face neutral, taking another drag of his cigarette. So Ava had been acting on his behalf after all… this _was_ about PANDORA. Not only that, but she hadn't given him the drugs that would have made the _mild_ test of sanity much more effective.

"Tell me, Sands. How is it that you weren't fazed by the last few days?" Suspicion worked its way into his voice as he continued. "Not even by the drugs?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Damn straight I would, but I know you're not going to tell me."

Sands leaned forward, and said in a conspiratorial tone, "The element of surprise is your number one amigo." Sands held up a single digit to accentuate his point, and flashed a wolf-like smile. "Bad form to try and test me with techniques that I dreamed up. Couldn't you think up any of your own?"

"I never claimed to have a knack for the head-fuck. I'm just a man who has power in every place but the brain."

A slow smile spread across Sands' face. "Give me a quarter and I'll explain it to you again sometime, Karlin."

"So the earth moved after all."

Sands snorted, taking another pull of his cigarette. "I can practically feel the aftershocks. Let's cut the foreplay and get down to the heavy stuff."

"All right. The only reason I'm here right now is because of our mutual acquaintance, Eric Cameron. He tossed some information my way, and I'm merely making sure no one drops the ball."

"And?" Sands prodded. "You want to lift the lid of Pandora's Box for one more look-see?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Sands tapped the ash off his cigarette, quirking an eyebrow. "What about all those pesky little side-effects PANDORA was blamed for?"

"You've got the wrong idea. That bitch PANDORA died a slow and torturous death, and none of us are looking to relieve that nightmare."

"But you're going to create a whole new one of your own." Sands said.

"No." Karlin stated. "You are."

* * *

Author's Notes

Wow! Looks as if I haven't lost all of you yet... thank you, thank you for the wonderful reviews. Because you were all so kind, I was able to get this next chapter out much quicker (well, quicker for me!). I hope you enjoyed it.

As always, feedback is yummy!

-Scarlett


	43. Special Delivery

**Chapter 43: Special Delivery**

Sands quirked a curious eyebrow in Karlin's direction but said nothing, waiting for the elder man to continue. A funny thing had happened after he'd given himself up to the Company; he'd rediscovered the power of patience.

After all, the cat didn't catch the canary when it couldn't wait for the perfect moment to pounce. He had no intention of letting Karlin best him, but he had every intention of allowing Karlin to think that he had.

Silence quickly replaced conversation, and Sands' lips twitched into an amused smile.

Karlin never had been one to rush a discussion. Sands let him set the pace as he thought about what the man was offering. He took another drag, relaxing into his chair and thinking about his possible return to the PANDORA project. It certainly wouldn't be his first choice, but he had a feeling it would be the best he'd get from the Company in his current state and standing. He was sure that Karlin knew it too and was using it to his full advantage.

"PANDORA was fucked from the beginning, and you knew it. You had balls, coming out against your own project," Karlin stated.

"That ship hit an iceberg long before I joined the crew."

"The Company still wants something that will fulfill PANDORA's promises."

Sands chuckled, tapping the ashes of his cigarette onto the floor. "Naturally. Absolute power leaves little room for conflict."

"You, of all people, wouldn't be lecturing me on the corrupting effects of absolute power, would you?"

Sands smiled. "I dig the idea, but the results you're lookin' for kinda suck the fun out of wielding the power. It's a groovy problem solver, though."

"Unless, of course, it was you who was doing the wielding," Karlin stated knowingly, and not without some amusement of his own.

A puff on his cigarette preceded Sands' answer. He settled back into the chair, exhaling a large plume of smoke, and leaning his head back as he did so. "That goes without saying," he drawled, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You still have the irritating habit of beating around the bush, I see."

"Do you?"

His smirk didn't falter. He'd walked right into that one, but he was quickly becoming accustomed to that tactic and it was growing old fast. "What are you offering me?"

"A chance to continue with the Company, and fuck with people's heads."

"Sounds like a romping good time," Sands said with a shrug. Pausing, he stubbed out his cigarette on the table in front of him. "The catch?"

"The only other offer you're going to get from the Company is forced retirement with disability."

So that's how they were going to play it… winner take all.

Well, he to could play at that game.

His smirk contorted into a cynically twisted grin as he moved out of his relaxed position and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Oh? Is that so?"

Karlin chuckled. "If you aren't crazy now, you will be once the boredom of retirement sets in. If you take this assignment, you'll be in charge of the program that will replace PANDORA."

Karlin dodged his question. Sands took note of that. He also took note of Karlin's choice of words. As far as he knew, PANDORA had never made it past the testing stage.

Sands cocked his head and furrowed his brow. "Replace her…" he trailed off, nonplussed for a second as he absorbed the information.

Leaning back in his chair again, he couldn't help but laugh.

So that's why they wanted him back; to fix the mess they'd made. He couldn't say he was surprised. "Didn't work, did it?" he asked knowingly, suppressing his laughter.

"The Company was in need; still is. You can fill that need. That's what it's all about. I'd take advantage of it, if I were you."

"But you're not. Never could be."

"How's the old ball and chain?" Karlin asked, quickly diverting the conversation to a more sensitive topic. Sands heard the chair creak again and assumed that Karlin had stood.

"Don't you know?" Sands asked coolly, not about to let Karlin rile him.

"Maybe I do."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't. After all, she's under PsyOps' loving care."

Unbeknownst to Sands, Karlin's eyes had widened at his comment. Sands wasn't supposed to be aware that PsyOps was in control of his wife's therapy. However, Karlin kept his tone neutral as he continued. "Perhaps her situation could change…"

"Ah…" He was starting to see where all this was going. He propped his feet on the table, then asked, "Still looking for the magic elixir? Maybe you can ask Indiana Jones if he can help you find the Holy Grail while you're at it."

"You wouldn't want one?" Karlin asked, ignoring Sands' jibe as he made his way around the table. "You can't tell me that you wouldn't give anything to see again."

"If you really think I'm that desperate, or that stupid, then I wouldn't be the man you're looking for."

Karlin didn't answer at first, taking a drag of his cigarette. Sands listened as he exhaled slowly, and then finally said, "True. You up to it?"

Sands waved a hand in dismissal. "It's pure gravy. Just not sure I want to take the gig."

"I don't ask twice."

"You don't ask at all," Sands stated wryly. "However, my keen intellect tells me that I'm getting a decent deal here." His tone was dripping with sarcasm, betraying his words and any hint of gratitude which may have been hidden there.

Karlin missed – or ignored – the tone, however. "The best that you're going to be offered."

Sands gave a derisive snort. "Do you want me to say thank you?"

"I wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself, Sands."

"Maybe I'll send you a card," Sands said with a smile that was less than friendly. He sat silently as he listened to the sound of Karlin's footsteps retreat to the door, bringing an end to the conversation.

"So, is that a yes?" Karlin asked.

"You know I get a perverse kick out of performing a good mind fuck. How could I resist?" he said lightly.

"I had a feeling you'd come around," Karlin answered.

The smugness in Karlin's voice did not go unnoticed by Sands. "By the by, who unearthed the bitch?" Sands asked with grim amusement. Somebody had done some digging, and he wanted Karlin to know that he was fully aware of what was going on.

Karlin's only answer was an amused laugh as he walked out the door and shut it firmly behind him.

The offer sounded all well and good on the surface, but a sinister little gremlin was lurking underneath. It didn't take a rocket scientist – or even an experienced CIA officer – to figure out that he was being set up for a fall. He suspected that a more powerful suit than Karlin had found out a bit too much about PANDORA, and they were looking for someone's head to put on the chopping block.

Karlin and the Company had another thing coming if they thought that person was going to be him. His mind drifted to El suddenly, and he wondered if the Mariachi had held up his end of the deal or bolted to some secluded hide-away to brood about bygone days.

------------------------------

Karlin walked down the sterile hall at a brisk clip, meeting up with two other officers waiting by the elevators.

"He buy it?" the female officer asked, while her partner kept an eye out for any eavesdroppers in the immediate area, doing his best to look nonchalant as he did so.

"Hook, line and sinker," Karlin said confidently. The woman made him nervous, though he did his best not to show it. "He knows we're up to something, but he underestimates the Company."

"Did you find a trigger?"

"Yeah. I don't think Sands'll be too happy in the near future."

She gave a sharp nod, then signaled to her partner that it was time to leave. Turning her icy stare back on Karlin she said, "Get this wrapped up, or you're history."

Karlin swallowed thickly. "Shouldn't be a problem."

She quirked a well-kept eyebrow. "Don't make the same mistake he is," she said, then looked him up and down before turning to leave. Her partner was holding the elevator for her as she stepped inside.

"Bitch," Karlin muttered as soon as the doors closed. Straightening his tie, he set out to find Ava and let her know that he was through with Sands.

------------------------------

**2 Days Later**

"I don't understand you, Sands," Cam said with a shake of his head. "You're back in D.C., you get to work for PsyOps again, Martin's practically a vegetable… shouldn't you be happy right now?" he asked lightly, as he and Sands walked down one of the paths in Lincoln Park.

Sands frowned slightly, miffed that Cam had noticed his mood. His cane tapped lightly in front of him as he walked, and he was aware that Cam had probably chosen Lincoln Park because it had paved walks.

He couldn't say that he wasn't happy about Martin's current vegetative state… still, he had a bad vibe that he just couldn't seem to shake. "What makes you think I'm not chipper as a jay bird right now?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because I haven't received my daily put-down from you yet," Cam tried to joke. "You're remarkably dull, a word I thought I'd never associate with you."

Sands stopped dead in his tracks. "Dull!" he scoffed.

"Yeah. But now that I think about it, _boring_ is more the word." Cam stopped walking as well, but knowing that his teasing might not be well received, he kept a safe distance in case Sands retaliated with his fist or cane.

Sands arched a dark eyebrow in Cam's direction, remaining dangerously still. He refrained from doing anything rash, as real revenge was better taken when Cam was least expecting it. Instead, he took his time lighting a cigarette. He said nothing, knowing it would freak Cam out more than anything he could say.

After watching Sands take a deep drag of his cigarette, he said with finality, "You're going to get me for this later, aren't you?"

Sands flashed Cam a twisted smile. "Ah, but an eye for an eye would make the whole world blind."

"Thank you, Gandhi," Cam said, looking up at the approaching storm clouds before returning his gaze to Sands. "Please, we went to the Farm together. I know you better than that."

"You presume to know me so well. Don't you think that might be a mistake?" Sands took a puff of his cigarette as he resumed walking. The heavy moisture in the air signaled an approaching storm.

"Have you heard from El?" Sands asked, curious.

Cam shook his head. "No."

"Hmm, bailed as soon as I cut him loose," Sands said as if to himself. Just one more example of how you couldn't control something, or someone, once it left your immediate influence. Luckily, he'd considered the possibility before he'd let El go and didn't have to rely solely on El to blackmail the Company.

Still, he'd thought he'd pegged El as an honest man… at least for a murderer. He was a little disappointed that he'd up and split without doing the job.

"Is it going to be a problem?"

Sands shook his head, no, taking another puff of his cigarette. "It just would have been the icing on the cake."

"Do you want me to see if I can find him?" Cam asked after a moment.

As much as teaching El a lesson appealed to him, he knew it wasn't a good idea, and he simply didn't have the energy to do it. He'd been told this morning that he was going to need reconstructive surgery on his eyes and soon. He wasn't surprised. They'd told him that when he was first in the hospital. Still, he wasn't thrilled at the idea of going back under the knife so soon. "Did you send off what I gave you?" he asked after a couple minutes.

Cam halted, and Sands followed suit. "I did what you told me to."

"Shit," Sands muttered with a shake of his head. He'd half-expected that would be the case. After all, Cam had always been – at the very least – true to his word.

He was glad the proof he'd obtained in Mexico was safe; he just wasn't too keen on who he'd sent it off to. Sure, it was the only option at the time, but he still thought he must have had a complete meltdown to go through with it.

"Right," Cam directed when they came to another pathway, leading them both back to his car. "Jeff, what's going on?"

Sands sighed, feeling a few raindrops hit his face. "You remember that list that was circulating around the Company a few years back? Washington Rules? One of them was 'there's always one more son of a bitch than you counted on'."

Cam laughed lightly. "Oh, yeah." He sobered up when he realized what Sands was implying. "Do you think there's another traitor?"

"Fallaces sunt rerum species. I'm getting a few too many bad vibes."

------------------------------

Cameron pulled up alongside the curb in front of Sands' apartment building. He shot Sands a worried sidelong glance as he came to a halt, wishing he didn't have a shit-load of work piling up on his desk. Sands was acting a bit off, there was no doubt about it. He wondered if more had happened in the psych ward than what he'd been told. "I need to get going. I've got paperwork coming out the wazoo."

Sands nodded, listening to the raindrops as they hit the windshield. The light sprinkling had turned into heavy rain and Sands braced himself for a quick dash. Swinging open the car door, he jumped out quickly and, familiar with the area, had no trouble making a hasty retreat into the apartment building. He heard Cam pull away just as he stepped inside.

The stuffiness of the old apartment building assailed his remaining senses full force, and he thought for the first time in a long while that he might want to move.

Pulling wet strands of hair back, he dried his face with the sleeve of his coat and headed up the nearest stairwell.

Once up the stairs he quickly hurried down the hall to his apartment, and was surprised when the toe of his shoe hit something sitting on the floor in front of his door. Bending down to pick it up Sands realized that it was a package.

Standing in the hall, dripping wet, he held the package as if it was an alien creature. Frowning, he wondered what it could possibly be. He hadn't been expecting anything, and he couldn't help but feel uneasy.

Hearing someone else come up the stairs, Sands hurried to find his keys. Opening the door and stepping inside, he took off his coat and set it on a small table by the door, along with his cane.

He carried the package into the living room and set it on the sofa.

He had the feeling that he needed a drink before opening it. Whatever it was, he held little hope that it would be good. Feeling a cold breeze, he realized that he had left the living room window open and went over to shut it.

As he did so, his thoughts remained on the package.

_Why are you so edgy about a fucking package? It's probably from dear ol' dad. Or Cam. Or the Company…even El if you really want to grasp at straws._

But he couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't from any of them. Damn it, if only he could see the return address – or lack of one – it wouldn't be such a mystery.

Going into the kitchen, he grabbed himself a beer from the fridge and returned to the living room, taking a long swig from the bottle as he did so.

_It's probably a bomb, come to end your misery._

Sands actually chuckled at the morbid thought.

Setting the beer down on the table, Sands grabbed his pocket knife and sliced open the packing tape before returning the blade to his pocket. He sat down heavily on the sofa, picked up the package and opened the top flaps.

_Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?_

Sands reached into the box, finding a lot of packaging popcorn, and had to fish around for a moment before his fingers felt something plastic and bumpy…

_Bubble wrap._

Pulling the object from the foam popcorn, he unwrapped it to find that his fingers were holding something cool and slick… like glass. Feeling the shape he discovered that it was a glass jar.

He sat there for a minute bewildered until a thought entered his mind, tainting and poisoning every thought after it. A cold shudder passed through him and he set the jar heavily on the table in front of him.

Don't jump to conclusions. It could be… could be… 

Leaning forward he held his head in his hands, trying to calm himself down as he attempted to breathe deeply.

_It's just not possible. _

Suddenly he thought of Jackson. The note found on him in Braille.

But Martin had been responsible for that…

Hadn't he?

Sands turned back to the empty box and, with a feeling of dread, felt inside. At the very bottom of the package, he found a piece of paper and pulled it out with a shaky hand.

Again, it was printed in Braille. As he read the short sentence his stomach twisted into a tight knot.

_Something to remember me by._

It wasn't signed. He let out a shuddering breath, dropping the note to the floor. If this was what he thought it was, it was far worse than a bomb. Far worse.

Sanity be damned, he had to know.

With a new resolve, he snatched up the jar and went into the kitchen. _It can't be. _Over and over again his mind chanted that. He couldn't believe it. He **wouldn't** believe it. That man was dead. He had to be.

In front of the sink, he unscrewed the jar. He felt sick as the lid came off; so much so that he had to set the open vessel down and lean against the counter before continuing.

_Please, let it be a fucking jar of jam._

Taking one last deep breath, he moved the jar over the sink, then poked a couple fingers inside it.

His fingers made contact with something that was a little thicker than water, before diving deeper into the jar. Then he felt it, soft and fleshy against his fingertips.

He let out a cry as he yanked his hand out of the jar, and the jar fell. He heard it shatter as it hit the bottom of the sink and several shards of glass flew up and embedded themselves in his hands.

_No, no, no, no, no. _

Determined to prove himself wrong, he reached into the sink desperately; the glass bit into his hands as he searched. When he found what he was searching for, he was unable to touch it any longer than was necessary to identify it.

An eye.

_Something to remember me by._

It was his fucking eyes.

Dropping it, he backed away from the sink. Truly sick, he stumbled out of the kitchen as fast as he could. The unseen world seemed to tilt and spin beneath him.

He knocked over a lamp as he lurched into the bathroom. The contents of his lunch were soon in the toilet.

Collapsing onto the floor, he fell against the wall behind him. When he came back to his senses he realized that his face was wet, and it wasn't from the rain. He drew up a knee and rested his elbow on top of it, leaning his head in his hand.

He remained that way for a good five minutes before he realized his hands were bleeding badly, and glass was digging painfully into his palms.

_Guevera. _

The mere name made his blood run cold.

What the fuck am I going to do with my eyes? 

He tried to convince himself that he should wash the blood off his hands, get the glass out, clean up the mess… yet he seemed unable to move. He was distantly aware of the phone ringing, but even if he was in any condition to get up, he was in no condition to answer.

He couldn't think, couldn't focus; it was as if his mind and body had ground to a halt. Everything was still and silent, even his mind… and that was the most eerie thing of all.

He sat there – immobilized and unthinking – for who knew how long. Could have been ten seconds or ten minutes. Fuck, it could have been ten hours or ten days for all it mattered.

Then, suddenly, something penetrated the stillness; it was the hum of his heater as it kicked on. His body bolted upright as if he'd been shocked.

Oh yeah, he was trembling, wasn't he? Still, he was pretty sure the cause wasn't the chill of the air.

A single question entered his mind: _Why couldn't it have been a bomb?_

He considered the thought for a moment, and then began to laugh wildly.

I really thought I'd gotten them all. How could I be so stupid? 

_There's always one more._

_Always one more._

_One more._

_More._

His thoughts ground to a halt.

More what? 

The ceiling creaked as his neighbors in the apartment above walked about.

_Get up._

Not a thought, but a command from his brain. He made a weak attempt to push himself up, but slid back down to the ground.

You going to sit there forever, or do something about it? 

He tried again with a little more effort and managed to bring himself to a semi-standing position.

_Christ._ What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't wounded.

_Are you going to let Guevara get away with this?_

He pushed himself up completely, but still leaned heavily against the wall. He forced himself to concentrate on the things he needed to do, and tried not to think about what he'd just received in the mail.

But something like that doesn't just go away, and despite focusing on washing the blood off and pulling the glass out of his hands, his thoughts still drifted back.

"_He had no eyes. No eyes, no soul."_

_Well, he may still be in search of his soul but he had at least one eye in the kitchen sink._

He grimaced as he pulled a large piece of glass from his left palm and dropped it into the sink.

_She stood beside him, smiling as amusement twinkled in her eyes._

"_You're a thinker, Shelly. The ideas man." She absently fixed his collar as he got ready. "Why do you try to be the man of action?"_

He shook himself clear of his memory. He hated to admit it, but he'd known she was right then and it was painfully clear how right she was now.

He **made** things happen, he pulled the strings, but he was never meant to be the man of action.

When had he forgotten that?

The Day of the Dead? Before?

When did you stop running Mexico with your cell phone and become a real pawn in the game? 

The phone rang again as he finished pulling the glass out of his hands. He took the gauze from the cabinet above the sink and opened the wrapper. The answering machine picked up, and although he couldn't make out the words from the bathroom, he could tell it was a woman's voice.

He wrapped the deepest cuts as best he could. Finished with that, he tiredly made his way out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

He stayed as far away from the kitchen as possible. He couldn't. Not now…

Tomorrow. He'd do… _something_ about it tomorrow.

He sat heavily on the bed. Thinking about the phone call again, he reached over to the answering machine and hit the play button.

"Hi Sands. I need to talk to you… mihi cura futuri."

She didn't leave her name, but he knew who it was. Ava – who was a little more overeducated than she'd first let on.

She did leave her number and when the message was over, he made sure to save it. He'd call her tomorrow.

He fell back onto the bed; still dressed and lying crooked across the mattress. It was probably still light outside. He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep – escape – and forget… if only for the night.

Tomorrow he'd come up with a plan.

And tomorrow he'd remember where his strengths truly did lie.

**The End**

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Latin Translations

Fallaces sunt rerum species. – The appearances of things are deceptive.

Mihi cura futuri. – I care for the future.

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Author's Note:

Well, that's all she wrote! Yes, it's somewhat evil, but I sense you all wouldn't except any less. I really, really hope you've enjoyed the ride... I sure have enjoyed writing it.

A huge thank you to everyone who replied to the last chapter or two, and didn't let me forget about this story. Please, please, please do drop me a line and let me know what you thought of the chapter, and the story.

Always, a big thanks to my beta, Stella-Maria.

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Update:

The sequel to this story can be found here on FFnet, listed on my profile page. It's titled **Wilderness of Mirrors.** There is also a one-shot companion piece to this story & Wilderness of Mirrors, titled **Broadway. **Thank you for reading!

-Scarlett


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